Beauty and The Beast | Page 7

result
of certain carefully measured supplies of brandy which Prince Boris himself had carried
to the imprisoned poet.
After the sterlets had melted away to their backbones, and the roasted geese had shrunk
into drumsticks and breastplates, and here and there a guest's ears began to redden with
more rapid blood, Prince Alexis judged that the time for diversion had arrived. He first
filled up the idiot's basin with fragments of all the dishes within his reach,--fish, stewed
fruits, goose fat, bread, boiled cabbage, and beer,--the idiot grinning with delight all the
while, and singing, "Ne uyesjai golubchik moi," (Don't go away, my little pigeon),
between the handfuls which he crammed into his mouth. The guests roared with laughter,
especially when a juggler or Calmuck stole out from under the gallery, and pretended to
have designs upon the basin. Mishka, the bear, had also been well fed, and greedily drank
ripe old Malaga from the golden dish. But, alas! he would not dance. Sitting up on his
hind legs, with his fore paws hanging before him, he cast a drunken, languishing eye
upon the company, lolled out his tongue, and whined with an almost human voice. The
domestics, secretly incited by the Grand Marshal, exhausted their ingenuity in coaxing
him, but in vain. Finally, one of them took a goblet of wine in one hand, and, embracing
Mishka with the other, began to waltz. The bear stretched out his paw and clumsily

followed the movements, whirling round and round after the enticing goblet. The
orchestra struck up, and the spectacle, though not exactly what Prince Alexis wished, was
comical enough to divert the company immensely.
But the close of the performance was not upon the programme. The impatient bear,
getting no nearer his goblet, hugged the man violently with the other paw, striking his
claws through the thin shirt. The dance-measure was lost; the legs of the two tangled, and
they fell to the floor, the bear undermost. With a growl of rage and disappointment, he
brought his teeth together through the man's arm, and it might have fared badly with the
latter, had not the goblet been refilled by some one and held to the animal's nose.
Then, releasing his hold, he sat up again, drank another bottle, and staggered out of the
hall.
Now the health of Prince Alexis was drunk,--by the guests on the floor of the hall in
Champagne, by those in the galleries in kislischi and hydromel. The orchestra played; a
choir of serfs sang an ode by Simon Petrovitch, in which the departure of Prince Boris
was mentioned; the tumblers began to posture; the jugglers came forth and played their
tricks; and the cannon on the ramparts announced to all Kinesma, and far up and down
the Volga, that the company were rising from the table.
Half an hour later, the great red slumber-flag floated over the castle. All slept,--except the
serf with the wounded arm, the nervous Grand Marshal, and Simon Petrovich with his
band of dramatists, guarded by the indefatigable Sasha. All others slept,--and the curious
crowd outside, listening to the music, stole silently away; down in Kinesma, the mothers
ceased to scold their children, and the merchants whispered to each other in the bazaar;
the captains of vessels floating on the Volga directed their men by gestures; the
mechanics laid aside hammer and axe, and lighted their pipes. Great silence fell upon the
land, and continued unbroken so long as Prince Alexis and his guests slept the sleep of
the just and the tipsy.
By night, however, they were all awake and busily preparing for the diversions of the
evening. The ball-room was illuminated by thousands of wax-lights, so connected with
inflammable threads, that the wicks could all be kindled in a moment. A pyramid of tar-
barrels had been erected on each side of the castle-gate, and every hill or mound on the
opposite bank of the Volga was similarly crowned. When, to a stately march,--the
musicians blowing their loudest,--Prince Alexis and Princess Martha led the way to the
ball-room, the signal was given: candles and tar-barre]s burst into flame, and not only
within the castle, but over the landscape for five or six versts, around everything was
bright and clear in the fiery day. Then the noises of Kinesma were not only permitted, but
encouraged. Mead and qvass flowed in the very streets, and the castle trumpets could not
be heard for the sound of troikas and balalaikas.
After the Polonaise, and a few stately minuets, (copied from the court of Elizabeth), the
company were ushered into the theatre. The hour of Simon Petrovitch had struck: with
the inspiration smuggled to him by Prince Boris, he had arranged a performance which he
felt to be his masterpiece. Anxiety as to