This thought has always haunted me, even in those moments when I seemed to forget everything at your feet, revelling in your passionate devotion, your infinite tenderness…. The careless world unmercifully persecutes that which in theory it allows: its icy derision would sooner or later have vanquished you, would have humbled your ardent soul – until in the end you would have been ashamed of your passion…. And what would have become of me then? No, better that I should die, better that I should leave you before that awful moment….

Your peace of mind is more precious to me than anything else: you could enjoy no peace with the eyes of the world fixed upon us. Remember all that you have suffered – all the insults to your pride, all the torments of dread; remember the terrible birth of our son. Think: is it right that I should subject you any longer to anxiety and peril? Why strive to unite the destiny of so tender and beautiful a being as yourself with the unhappy lot of a negro, a pitiful creature whom people scarcely deign to recognize as human?

Farewell, Leonora; farewell, my dear, my only friend. In leaving you I leave the first and last joy of my life. I have neither fatherland nor kindred; I am going to Russia, where my utter solitude will be a solace to me. Exacting work, to which I shall henceforth devote myself, will, if not stifle, at least distract me from the agonizing memories of days of rapture and bliss…. Farewell, Leonora! I tear myself from this letter as though it were from your arms. Farewell, be happy and think sometimes of the poor negro, of your faithful

Ibrahim

That same night he set out for Russia.

The journey did not seem to him so frightful as he had expected. His imagination triumphed over reality. The farther he got from Paris the closer and more vividly he pictured the things that he was leaving for ever.

Before he was aware of it, he had reached the Russian frontier. It was already autumn but in spite of the bad roads he was driven with the speed of the wind, and on the morning of the seventeenth day of his journey arrived at Krasnoe Selo, through which the highway passed in those times.

It was another twenty-eight versts1 to Petersburg. While the horses were being changed Ibrahim went into the post-house. In a corner a tall man in a green peasant-coat and with a clay pipe in his mouth sat leaning his elbows on the table, reading the Hamburg newspapers. Hearing somebody come in, he raised his head.

‘Ah, Ibrahim!’ he cried, rising from the bench. ‘Good morning to you, godson!’

Recognizing Peter, Ibrahim rushed joyfully towards him but stopped short respectfully. The Tsar approached, embraced him and kissed him on the head.

‘I was informed of your coming,’ said Peter, ‘and came to meet you. I have been waiting for you here since yesterday.’

Ibrahim could not find words to express his gratitude.

‘Have your carriage follow on behind,’ continued the Tsar, ‘and you drive home with me.’

The Tsar’s carriage was brought up; he took his place with Ibrahim beside him, and they drove off at a furious pace. An hour and a half later they were in Petersburg. Ibrahim gazed with curiosity at the new-born capital which was rising out of the marsh at the bidding of its monarch. Rough dams, canals without an embankment, wooden bridges everywhere bore witness to the recent triumph of the human will over the reluctant elements. The houses appeared to have been built in a hurry. In the whole town there was nothing magnificent save the Neva, which had not yet received its granite frame but was already full of warships and merchant vessels. The imperial carriage stopped at the palace, which was called the Tsaritsyn Garden.

On the steps Peter was met by a handsome woman of some five and thirty summers, dressed in the latest Paris fashion. After he had kissed her, Peter took Ibrahim by the hand and said:

‘Do you recognize my godson, Katinka? Pray love and be kind to him as you used to in the old days.’

Catherine looked at Ibrahim with her penetrating black eyes, and stretched out her hand in a friendly manner. Two young beauties standing behind her, tall, slim and fresh as roses, respectfully approached Peter.

‘Liza,’ he said to one of them, ‘do you remember the little negro boy who used to steal my apples for you at Oranienbaum? This is he: let me introduce him to you.’

The Grand Duchess laughed and blushed. They went into the dining-room. The table had been laid in expectation of Peter’s arrival. He sat down to dinner with all his family, inviting Ibrahim to join them.