complaints of mental boredom and physical distaste. And at the end, when discovery and danger threatened, he cautioned his mistress to bear with âthe monsterâ, since both their lives depended on his blind stupidity.
Paul sat very still and stared in front of him, the letters scattered at his feet. He felt curiously numb and disembodied as if nothing of himself remained but that strange bursting in his head.
His gentle, chaste Natalie, his companion, the mainspring of his life. His lips parted in a ghastly smile of irony. His idol had just been proved a slut, a liar, the mistress of a coarse young libertine. She had betrayed him and brought him to the verge of imprisonment and even death to save herself and Rasumovsky. And together they had laughed at him behind his back.
With difficulty he stood up and walked towards a large mirror that hung from the opposite wall. For some moments he regarded his reflection, his brain quite cool, his thoughts collected. He saw the short body and broad shoulders; they reminded him suddenly of an ape, an ape in satin knee-breeches and coat, with a grotesque flattened face, from which the great blue eyes stared back at him, terrible in their pain and humanity.
âShe never loved you,â he said aloud. âNever. She hated you. Look at yourself, fool, and see how she must have hated you.â¦â
The lackeys on duty outside his door heard a sharp, tormented cry, followed by the shattering fall of glass.
When they entered, they saw their master kneeling by a chair, sobbing, with his arms over his head, and the blood running from a lacerated hand.
The wall mirror was smashed to splinters by a titanic blow from a madmanâs fist.
Three months later a crowd of several thousand lined the streets of Petersburg, watching the passing of a long procession of carriages and troops.
At the head of the line, preceded by an escort of Imperial Cavalry, the royal coach drove through the city, moving with the slow solemnity of a great gilded coffin, and he who sat in it remained as still and pallid as a corpse.
The people, cheering and shouting their loyalty, struggled to glimpse that silent figure in the foremost carriage, while lines of soldiers thrust them back with blows. The cries of the populace penetrated to the Empress herself, in the Summer Palace, so that she rose hurriedly from her desk and banged the window down. He was already out of sight; pray God, she thought angrily, he would soon be beyond earshot, and with that reflection turned once more to the affairs of State. The noise which distracted Catherine beat against the closed windows of the royal coach, but Paul Petrovitch sat upright, staring straight ahead of him, deaf to the tumult and blind to the sea of waving hands.
As always, the people acclaimed him; but for the first time he was unmoved. His expression was fixed and vacant, only the eyes glowed with life in his sallow face. He looked twice his twenty-one years.
He, whose wife was scarcely cold in her grave, was setting out publicly to bring home a second bride.
For some weeks after the revelation of Rasumovskyâs letters, he had been ill with shock, physically ill, and tormented by sleeplessness and fits of weeping that gave place to periods of silent apathy.
Catherineâs messengers had come to him during that time, demanding of the wretched victim whether he were prepared to obey his mother and take another wife.
âI will marry as soon as she pleases,â he told them, and turning to the wall, he wept.
The Czarevitch was sick, they murmured to their mistress, but he was ready to do as he was told. Before them all, the Empress slipped her hand through Potemkinâs arm and smiled her thanks upon him. Then she sent her physicians to her son with orders to rouse him and expedite his recovery. There was to be no malingering, she ordered sharply, and no soft treatment. The second Grand Duchess was already chosen, Princess Sophia of
Paul sat very still and stared in front of him, the letters scattered at his feet. He felt curiously numb and disembodied as if nothing of himself remained but that strange bursting in his head.
His gentle, chaste Natalie, his companion, the mainspring of his life. His lips parted in a ghastly smile of irony. His idol had just been proved a slut, a liar, the mistress of a coarse young libertine. She had betrayed him and brought him to the verge of imprisonment and even death to save herself and Rasumovsky. And together they had laughed at him behind his back.
With difficulty he stood up and walked towards a large mirror that hung from the opposite wall. For some moments he regarded his reflection, his brain quite cool, his thoughts collected. He saw the short body and broad shoulders; they reminded him suddenly of an ape, an ape in satin knee-breeches and coat, with a grotesque flattened face, from which the great blue eyes stared back at him, terrible in their pain and humanity.
âShe never loved you,â he said aloud. âNever. She hated you. Look at yourself, fool, and see how she must have hated you.â¦â
The lackeys on duty outside his door heard a sharp, tormented cry, followed by the shattering fall of glass.
When they entered, they saw their master kneeling by a chair, sobbing, with his arms over his head, and the blood running from a lacerated hand.
The wall mirror was smashed to splinters by a titanic blow from a madmanâs fist.
Three months later a crowd of several thousand lined the streets of Petersburg, watching the passing of a long procession of carriages and troops.
At the head of the line, preceded by an escort of Imperial Cavalry, the royal coach drove through the city, moving with the slow solemnity of a great gilded coffin, and he who sat in it remained as still and pallid as a corpse.
The people, cheering and shouting their loyalty, struggled to glimpse that silent figure in the foremost carriage, while lines of soldiers thrust them back with blows. The cries of the populace penetrated to the Empress herself, in the Summer Palace, so that she rose hurriedly from her desk and banged the window down. He was already out of sight; pray God, she thought angrily, he would soon be beyond earshot, and with that reflection turned once more to the affairs of State. The noise which distracted Catherine beat against the closed windows of the royal coach, but Paul Petrovitch sat upright, staring straight ahead of him, deaf to the tumult and blind to the sea of waving hands.
As always, the people acclaimed him; but for the first time he was unmoved. His expression was fixed and vacant, only the eyes glowed with life in his sallow face. He looked twice his twenty-one years.
He, whose wife was scarcely cold in her grave, was setting out publicly to bring home a second bride.
For some weeks after the revelation of Rasumovskyâs letters, he had been ill with shock, physically ill, and tormented by sleeplessness and fits of weeping that gave place to periods of silent apathy.
Catherineâs messengers had come to him during that time, demanding of the wretched victim whether he were prepared to obey his mother and take another wife.
âI will marry as soon as she pleases,â he told them, and turning to the wall, he wept.
The Czarevitch was sick, they murmured to their mistress, but he was ready to do as he was told. Before them all, the Empress slipped her hand through Potemkinâs arm and smiled her thanks upon him. Then she sent her physicians to her son with orders to rouse him and expedite his recovery. There was to be no malingering, she ordered sharply, and no soft treatment. The second Grand Duchess was already chosen, Princess Sophia of
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