Chapter XXIII: Orloff at Moscow

The peace with Turkey was publicly celebrated at Moscow on July 13th. Galitzin was not forgotten, and, for having cleared Moldavia of the Turks, received from Petersburg a rich sword studded with diamonds. Orloff received a testimonial, a rich dinner service, one of the Imperial properties near Petersburg, and the title of “Chesmenski.”

“Put up on the shelves of the archives, wholly thrown over!” thought Alexis Gregorevitch. He was not allowed to follow the court to Petersburg. From this time Moscow was assigned to him as a residence, as also to many of the other supporters of Ekaterina. It would have seemed that the days of Chesmenski flowed on peacefully and pleasantly in his splendid Muscovite palace; but the retainers of the count began to notice that he often had fits of melancholy--that very often, without any reason whatever, he would have funeral masses celebrated, or a special service with _Acathistus_,[41] or would call in the gipsy fortune-tellers, and they would hear him often murmur and complain of the “Traitress Fortune,” who in former times had so spoilt him with her favours.

If Count Alexana would drive out his fleet steeds on a beautiful frosty evening, flying along the streets, glancing at the passers-by from under his rich fur cap, thickly studded with frosty diamonds, his thoughts would carry him back to other blue, but warm skies, to the azure shores of the Morea and the Adriatic, to the Roman and Venetian marble palaces. If in autumn the sleet were driving, promising a splendid hunt, the count would ride in the neighbourhood of Otradi or Niaskouchnavo, and, after having driven the mother hare out of the birch copse, and started his favourite harehounds on her track, would gallop on his gallant Kabardinetz furiously in pursuit, but all at once he would rein in his steed and stop. The rain might brush the wet branches of the birch in his face, the horse might splash through the pools and mud, but the count’s thoughts had wandered far away, to that far-off Italy, to Rome, Livorno, to the unfortunate, by him betrayed, Tarakanova.

“Where is she? What has become of her?” he would think. “Has she survived her child’s birth? Is she still there, or have they hidden her even farther away?”

After the fall of the favourite, Prince Gregory, his brother, Count Alexis Chesmenski, retired so quickly from court that he not only knew nothing positive, but even dared not try to know anything positive about the unfortunate beauty whom he had carried off and betrayed.

That same year, in autumn, rumours were spread in Moscow that a very important mysterious personage had been brought over from Petersburg, and sequestered in the Novo Spaski Nunnery; that she had been compelled to take the veil, and had been named Docifé,[42] and was now locked up in a secluded cell.

The Muscovites whispered loudly that the new nun was the daughter of the late Empress Elizabeth, by her secret husband Razoumovski.

What emotions the count underwent, are only known to himself.

“It is she! it is she!” he would murmur in his agitation, not knowing that his victim, the Princess Tarakanova, still hopelessly languished in the fortress. “It can be no one else; of course not. She has renounced everything, she has submitted, she has taken the veil.”

Thoughts of the newly-arrived captive troubled him so much that he even avoided driving in the street where the convent was, and if this were impossible, he would avoid looking up at the windows.

“Traitor, murderer!” would resound in his ears, on recollecting his last interview with the Princess. In bitter anguish he would remember every detail of that interview, when she had loaded him with curses, stamped at him, spat in his face, and passionately flung at him whatever came near her hand. Once, when the Prince Volkonski had paid him an unofficial visit, to see over his stables and horses, Chesmenski tried to bring the conversation round to the Princess. They had returned from their walk to the stables, and were taking tea. The count began in a roundabout way to refer to foreign and home news, and rumours, and then, as if merely _en passant_, asked who the person was whom report said had been brought to the convent?

“Why do you ask that?” suddenly interrupted the prince, Michael Nikititch.

“What?” asked the bewildered Chesmenski.

“Nothing!” answered Volkonski, turning round, and looking aimlessly out of the window. “I was just recollecting a little Petersburg incident, that happened last year at Court.”

“What incident? Honour me, Batiushka Prince!” said the count, with a smile and a bow. “You see, here I hear nothing and see nothing of the new, curious, and to us very often incomprehensible occurrences in the court regions?”

“Well! as you please,” said Volkonski, clearing his throat, and continuing to gaze out of the window. “The incident, if you like, is not very important, rather comical than otherwise. You know the wife of the General Major Kojin? Marie Dimitrievna, who is so lively, so beautiful and such a chatterbox?”

“Oh, of course, who does not know her? I often used to meet her, before my departure for foreign parts.”

“Well! you know, she babbled out, it is said, somewhere … that some one … well! we’ll call them the Abaloshoffs, it’s all the same, I’ve forgotten who--had decided on patronising the new lucky man, Peter Modrvinoff.… Of course you know.”

Orloff silently inclined his head.

“Patronise … well! you understand, trip him up.…”

“Who?” asked Orloff.

“Well! it would seem Gregory Alexandrovitch Potemkin.”

“Well! and what then?”

“Well! this,” continued the prince. “In somebody’s private rooms, Stephan Ivanovitch Sheshkovski was hurriedly called, and the following orders were given:--‘Batiushka, go immediately, this very minute, to the masquerade, find out the _Generalsha_ Kojin. Having found her, carry her off to the secret department, and having given her a slight taste of corporal punishment, as a small token of remembrance, bring back the aforesaid little lady, with all honour, and deliver her safely over to the masquerade.”

“And Sheshkovski?”

“Well! he took the little lady, whipped her soundly, and brought her back, with all honour, to the masquerade, and she, that no one should get a hint of this curious little incident, said nothing, and very wisely and assiduously went through all the dances to which she had been invited--every one to the last--minuet, _cotillon_, and all.”

Orloff understood well the bitter allusion, and never mentioned Docifé again.

Neither did the count find any pleasure in his conversations with his intendant, Terentitch Cabanoff, who sometimes used to come from Krenova to Niaskouchnavo. Terentitch was a serf, but knew how to read and write. He was always dressed in the latest fashion, with a pearl-grey _kaftan_[43] and waistcoat, shoes with huge steel buckles, ruffles, and a black silk purse[44] to his powdered pigtail.

The count would pour out for him a goblet of rich foreign wine, saying, “Taste that, old fellow.… It’s not wine I’ve poured out, it’s a man’s life, … elixir.” Terentitch would refuse.

“No! No nonsense, old man!” would press the count. “Don’t forget the proverb, ‘Enjoy life while it lasts.’ Be merry, in that alone lies happiness. Unfortunately, not for all.”

“Too true, Batiushka Count!” would answer Cabanoff, drinking off the goblet. “We, well! we are but serfs; … but you, ought you to sigh, ought you not to enjoy sweet life in your own lovely, beautiful manors? The sites are so dry, so gay, the sloping fields are so fruitful; springs of water, forests, groves, everywhere. The serfs so industrious, so hardy, no beggars, thanks to you, our benefactor. We have noticed long ago, sir, that you are always very sad, and have heard something now and then which makes us all very anxious.”

“Doubt and suspicion, my dear fellow, will constantly exist,” answered the count. “Last autumn, you yourself wrote to me, when I was in foreign parts, praising the coming crops, and how did they turn out? to be of no account at all? No, the proverb says, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!’”

“Yes, it’s the truth you’re saying,” answered Terentitch, sighing.

“And in all other things,” continued the count. “I go about a great deal, and many come to me, and, would you believe it? I know nothing of what I used to know before. Phylia was high in favour, every one sought his patronage, but now, …” the count was silent and thoughtful.

“See there!” thought Cabanoff, looking at him, “with that strength, those riches, to be thus slighted.”

“Ah! yes, old man,” continued Orloff, “hard times are come. I feel as if between two millstones. My services are ended; no one requires them any more, and here, at home, there is nothing but _ennui_.”

“Count, fire purifies gold,” answered Terentitch, “misfortune, man. Wood won’t burn without shavings.… I might look out for some for you.”

“What?”

“Get married, your Grace.”

“Oh! well, prate about that to others, but not to me,” answered Chesmenski, remembering that Konsov had given him the same advice not long before.