# The Belkin Tales

Alexandr Pushkin

## Original:

Повести покойного Ивана Петровича Белкина

1831

The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin is a series of five short stories and a fictional editorial introduction by Russian author Aleksandr Pushkin.


The Tales Of Belkin:

01. The Shot (Выстрел)

02. The Snowstorm (Метель)

03. The Undertaker (Гробовщик)

04. The Postmaster (Станционный смотритель)

05. Mistress Into Maid (Барышня-крестьянка)


Ebook: http://originalbook.ru

## The Tales Of The Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin


MME. PROSTAKOVA:

My dear sir, from his childhood on, he has been fond of stories.

SKOTININ: Mitrofan takes after me.

THE MINOR


## EDITOR’S FOREWORD


HAVING UNDERTAKEN to arrange the publication of the Tales of I. P. Belkin, which are herewith offered to the public, we wished to add to these a biography, however brief, of the late author, and thereby to satisfy, at least partly, the just curiosity of lovers of our native letters. To that end we addressed ourselves to Marya Alexeyevna Trafilina, the heiress of Ivan Petrovich Belkin and his nearest of kin; but unfortunately it was impossible for her to furnish any intelligence concerning him, inasmuch as she had never known the deceased. She advised us to confer on the matter with an esteemed person, who had been a friend of Ivan Petrovich. We followed this advice, and our letter elicited the following answer. We present it here without any changes or explanatory notes, as a precious testimony to a noble manner of thinking and a touching friendship, and at the same time as a sufficient biographical account.

———, Esq.

My dear sir!

On the twenty-third of this month I had the honor of receiving your most esteemed letter of the fifteenth, in which you express your desire to secure detailed information regarding the dates of birth and death, the career in the service, the domestic circumstances, as well as the occupations and the character of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, my late good friend and neighbor. I take great pleasure in complying with your request, and I am here setting forth, my dear sir, all that I can recall of our talks and my own observations.

Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born of honorable and noble parents in the year 1798 in the village of Goryukhino. His late father, second-major Piotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to Pelageya Gavrilovna, née Trafilina. He was a man of moderate means, modest habits, very shrewd in business matters. Their son received his elementary education from a village beadle. To this esteemed man he owed, it would seem, his interest in reading and in Russian letters. In 1815 he entered the service in a Jaeger regiment of the infantry (I do not remember the number), in which he remained until the year 1823. The deaths of his parents, which occurred almost simultaneously, caused him to retire and settle at Goryukhino, his family estate.

Having undertaken the management of the estate, Ivan Petrovich, because of his inexperience and softheartedness, soon began to neglect his property, and relaxed the strict regime established by his late parent. Having dismissed the punctual and efficient steward with whom his peasants (as is their habit) were dissatisfied, he placed the management of the village in the hands of his old housekeeper, who had acquired his confidence through her ability to tell stories. This stupid old woman could not tell a twenty-five-ruble from a fifty-ruble note. She was godmother to the children of all the peasants, and so the latter were not in fear of her. The steward they had elected indulged them to such an extent, at the same time defrauding the master, that Ivan Petrovich was forced to abolish the corvée and introduce a very moderate quit-rent. Even then, the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, obtained a special privilege the first year, and during the next two years paid more than two-thirds of the quit-rent in nuts, huckleberries, and the like; and even so they were in arrears.

Having been a friend of Ivan Petrovich’s late parent, I deemed it my duty to offer my advice to the son, too, and repeatedly I volunteered to restore the order he had allowed to fall into decay. To that end, having come to see him one day, I demanded the account books, summoned the rascally steward, and, in the presence of Ivan Petrovich, started examining them. At first the young master followed me with all possible attention and diligence, but after we had ascertained from the accounts that in the last two years the number of peasants had increased, while the quantity of fowls and cattle bad considerably diminished, Ivan Petrovich was satisfied with this bit of information, and no longer listened to me, and at the very moment when my investigation and strict questioning had reduced the thievish steward to extreme embarrassment, and indeed forced him to complete silence, to my extreme mortification I heard Ivan Petrovich snoring loudly in his chair. Thenceforward I ceased to intervene in his business affairs and entrusted them (as he did himself) to the care of the Almighty.

This, however, did not injure our friendly relations to any degree; for, commiserating as I did his weakness and the ruinous negligence common to all our young noblemen, I sincerely loved Ivan Petrovich. It was indeed impossible not to like a young man so gentle and honorable. On his part, Ivan Petrovich showed respect to my years and was cordially attached to me. Until his very end he saw me nearly every day, prizing my simple conversation, although we did not resemble each other in habits, or manner of thinking, or character.

Ivan Petrovich lived in the most moderate fashion, and avoided excesses of any sort. I never chanced to see him tipsy (which in our parts may be accounted an unheard-of miracle); he had a strong leaning toward the female sex, but he was truly as bashful as a girl. [1]

Besides the tales which you are pleased to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left many manuscripts, some of which are in my hands, the rest having been put by his housekeeper to various domestic uses. Thus, last winter all the windows in her own wing were pasted over with the first part of the novel which he did not complete. The above-mentioned tales were, it seems, his first effort. As Ivan Petrovich said, they are for the most part true stories, which he had heard from various persons. [2]

But the names in them were almost all his own invention, while the names of the villages and hamlets were taken from our neighborhood, for which reason my village too is mentioned somewhere. This happened not because of any malicious design, but solely through lack of imagination.

In the autumn of 1828, Ivan Petrovich came down with a catarrhal fever, which took a bad turn, so that he died, in spite of the tireless efforts of our district doctor, a man very skillful, particularly in the treatment of inveterate diseases, such as bunions and the like. He died in my arms in the thirtieth year of his life, and was buried near his deceased parents in the churchyard of the village of Goryukhino.

Ivan Petrovich was of middle height, had gray eyes, blonde hair, a straight nose; his complexion was fair and his face lean.

Here, my dear sir, is all I can recall regarding the manner of life, the occupations, the character and the appearance of my late neighbor and friend. In case you should think fit to make some use of my letter, I respectfully beg you not to mention my name; for much as I esteem and admire authors, I deem it superfluous, and indeed at my age unseemly, to enter their ranks.

With every expression of sincere esteem, believe me, etc.

November 16, 1830

The village of Nenaradovo

Considering it our duty to respect the wish of our author’s esteemed friend, we signalize our deepest gratitude to him for the intelligence furnished by him, and trust that the public will appreciate his candor and good nature.

A. P.


## The Shot


We fought a duel.

BARATYNSKY

I swore to shoot him, as the code of dueling allows (it was my turn to fire)

EVENING AT CAMP


## I

We were stationed in the town of N——. The life of an officer in the army is well known. In the morning, drill and the riding school; dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish restaurant; in the evening, punch and cards. In N—— there was not one open house, or a single marriageable girl. We used to meet in each other’s rooms, where all we saw were men in uniform.

One civilian only was admitted into our society. He was about thirty-five years of age, and therefore we looked upon him as an old fellow. His experience gave him great advantage over us, and his habitual sullenness, stern disposition, and caustic tongue produced a deep impression upon our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his existence; he had the appearance of a Russian, although his name was a foreign one. He had formerly served in the Hussars, and with distinction. Nobody knew the cause that had induced him to retire from the service and settle in a wretched town, where he lived poorly and, at the same time, extravagantly. He always went on foot, and constantly wore a shabby black overcoat, but the officers of our regiment were ever welcome at his table. His dinners, it is true, never consisted of more than two or three dishes, prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like water. Nobody knew what his circumstances were, or what his income was, and nobody dared to question him about them. He had a collection of books, chiefly works on military matters and novels. He willingly lent them to us to read, and never asked for their return; on the other hand, he never returned to the owner the books that were lent to him. His principal amusement was shooting with a pistol. The walls of his room were riddled with bullets, and were as full of holes as a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury in the humble cottage where he lived. The skill which he had acquired with his favorite weapon was simply incredible; and if he had offered to shoot a pear off somebody’s forage cap, not a man in our regiment would have hesitated to expose his head to the bullet.

Our conversation often turned upon duels. Silvio—so I will call him—never joined in it. When asked if he had ever fought, he drily replied that he had; but he entered into no particulars, and it was evident that such questions were not to his liking. We imagined that he had upon his conscience the memory of some unhappy victim of his terrible skill. It never entered into the head of any of us to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are persons whose mere look is sufficient to repel such suspicions. But an unexpected incident occurred which astounded us all.

One day, about ten of our officers dined with Silvio. They drank as usual, that is to say, a great deal. After dinner we asked our host to hold the bank for a game at faro. For a long time he refused, as he hardly ever played, but at last he ordered cards to be brought, placed half a hundred gold coins upon the table, and sat down to deal. We took our places around him, and the game began. It was Silvio’s custom to preserve complete silence when playing. He never argued, and never entered into explanations. If the punter made a mistake in calculating, he immediately paid him the difference or noted down the surplus. We were acquainted with this habit of his, and we always allowed him to have his own way; but among us on this occasion was an officer who had only recently been transferred to our regiment. During the course of the game, this officer absently scored one point too many. Silvio took the chalk and noted down the correct account, according to his usual custom. The officers, thinking that he had made a mistake, began to enter into explanations. Silvio continued dealing in silence. The officer, losing patience, took the brush and rubbed out what he considered an error. Silvio took the chalk and corrected the score again. The officer, heated with wine, play, and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself grossly insulted, and in his rage he seized a brass candlestick from the table, and hurled it at Silvio, who barely succeeded in avoiding the missile. We were filled with consternation. Silvio rose, white with rage, and with gleaming eyes, said: “My dear sir, have the goodness to withdraw, and thank God that this has happened in my house.”

None of us entertained the slightest doubt as to what the result would be, and we already looked upon our new comrade as a dead man. The officer withdrew, saying that he was ready to answer for his offense in whatever way the banker liked. The play went on for a few minutes longer, but feeling that our host was too overwrought to care for the game, we withdrew one after the other, and repaired to our respective quarters, after having exchanged a few words upon the probability of there soon being a vacancy in the regiment.

The next day, at the riding school, we were already asking each other if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among us. We put the same question to him, and he replied that he had not yet heard from Silvio. This astonished us. We went to Silvio’s house and found him in the courtyard shooting bullet after bullet into an ace pasted upon the gate. He received us as usual, but did not utter a word about the event of the previous evening. Three days passed, and the lieutenant was still alive. We asked each other in astonishment: “Can it be possible that Silvio is not going to fight?”

Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very lame explanation, and made peace with his assailant.

This lowered him very much in the opinion of all our young fellows. Want of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who usually look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the excuse for every possible fault. But, by degrees, everything was forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence.

I alone could not approach him on the old footing. Being endowed by nature with a romantic imagination, I had become attached more than all the others to the man whose life was an enigma, and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious tale. He was fond of me; at least, with me alone did he drop his customary sarcastic tone, and converse on different subjects in a simple and unusually agreeable manner. But after this unlucky evening, the thought that his honor had been tarnished, and that the stain had been allowed to remain upon it through his own fault, was ever present in my mind, and prevented me from treating him as before. I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too intelligent and experienced not to observe this and guess the cause of it. This seemed to vex him; at least, I observed once or twice a desire on his part to enter into an explanation with me, but I avoided such opportunities, and Silvio gave up the attempt. From that time forward I saw him only in the presence of my comrades, and our former confidential conversations came to an end.

Those who live amidst the excitements of the capital have no idea of the many experiences familiar to the inhabitants of villages and small towns, as, for instance, waiting for the arrival of the post. On Tuesdays and Fridays our regimental bureau used to be filled with officers: some expecting money, some letters, and others newspapers. The packets were usually opened on the spot, items of news were communicated from one to another, and the bureau used to present a very animated picture. Silvio used to have his letters addressed to our regiment, and he was generally there to receive them.

One day he received a letter, the seal of which he broke with a look of the greatest impatience. As he read the contents, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each occupied with his own mail, did not observe anything.

“Gentlemen,” said Silvio, “circumstances demand my immediate departure; I leave tonight. I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for the last time. I shall expect you, too,” he added, turning toward me. “I shall expect you without fail.”

With these words he hastily departed, and we, after agreeing to meet at Silvio’s, dispersed to our various quarters.

I arrived at Silvio’s house at the appointed time, and found nearly the whole regiment there. All his belongings were already packed; nothing remained but the bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down to table. Our host was in an excellent humor, and his gaiety was quickly communicated to the rest. Corks popped every moment, glasses foamed incessantly, and, with the utmost warmth, we wished our departing friend a pleasant journey and every happiness. When we rose from the table it was already late in the evening. After having wished everybody good-bye, Silvio took me by the hand and detained me just at the moment when I was preparing to depart.

“I want to speak to you,” he said in a low voice.

I stopped behind.

The guests had departed, and we two were left alone. Sitting down opposite each other, we silently lit our pipes. Silvio seemed greatly troubled; not a trace remained of his former feverish gaiety. The intense pallor of his face, his sparkling eyes, and the thick smoke issuing from his mouth, gave him a truly diabolical appearance. Several minutes elapsed, and then Silvio broke the silence.

“Perhaps we shall never see each other again,” said he; “before we part, I should like to explain something to you. You may have observed that I care very little for the opinion of other people, but I like you, and I feel that it would be painful to me to leave you with a wrong impression on your mind.”

He paused, and began to refill his pipe. I sat gazing silently at the floor.

“You thought it strange,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction from that drunken idiot R——. You will admit, however, that since I had the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my own was in no great danger. I could ascribe my forbearance to generosity alone, but I will not tell a lie. If I could have chastised R—— without the least risk to my own life, I should never have pardoned him.”

I looked at Silvio with astonishment. Such a confession completely astounded me. Silvio continued: “Exactly so: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy still lives.”

My curiosity was greatly excited.

“Did you not fight with him?” I asked. “Circumstances probably separated you.”

“I did fight with him,” replied Silvio: “and here is a souvenir of our duel.”

Silvio rose and took from a cardboard box a red cap with a gold tassel and galloon (what the French call a bonnet de police); he put it on—a bullet had passed through it about an inch above the forehead.

“You know,” continued Silvio, “that I served in one of the

Hussar regiments. My character is well known to you: I am accustomed to taking the lead. From my youth this has been my passion. In our time dissoluteness was the fashion, and I was the wildest man in the army. We used to boast of our drunkenness: I outdrank the famous B——,[3] of whom D. D——[4] has sung. In our regiment duels were constantly taking place, and in all of them I was either second or principal. My comrades adored me, while the regimental commanders, who were constantly being changed, looked upon me as a necessary evil.

“I was calmly, or rather boisterously enjoying my reputation, when a young man belonging to a wealthy and distinguished family—I will not mention his name—joined our regiment. Never in my life have I met with such a fortunate fellow! Imagine to yourself youth, wit, beauty, unbounded gaiety, the most reckless bravery, a famous name, untold wealth—imagine all these, and you can form some idea of the effect that he would be sure to produce among us. My supremacy was shaken. Dazzled by my reputation, he began to seek my friendship, but I received him coldly, and without the least regret he held aloof from me. I began to hate him. His success in the regiment and in the society of ladies brought me to the verge of despair. I began to seek a quarrel with him; to my epigrams he replied with epigrams which always seemed to me more spontaneous and more cutting than mine, and which were decidedly more amusing, for he joked while I fumed. At last, at a ball given by a Polish landed proprietor, seeing him the object of the attention of all the ladies, and especially the mistress of the house, with whom I was having a liaison, I whispered some grossly insulting remark in his ear. He flamed up and gave me a slap in the face. We grasped our swords; the ladies fainted; we were separated; and that same night we set out to fight.

“The dawn was just breaking. I was standing at the appointed place with my three seconds. With indescribable impatience I awaited my opponent. The spring sun rose, and it was already growing hot. I saw him coming in the distance. He was on foot, in uniform, wearing his sword, and was accompanied by one second. We advanced to meet him. He approached, holding his cap filled with black cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I had to fire first, but my agitation was so great, that I could not depend upon the steadiness of my hand; and in order to give myself time to become calm, I ceded to him the first shot. My adversary would not agree to this. It was decided that we should cast lots. The first number fell to him, the constant favorite of fortune. He took aim, and his bullet went through my cap. It was now my turn. His life at last was in my hands; I looked at him eagerly, endeavoring to detect if only the faintest shadow of uneasiness. But he stood in front of my pistol, picking out the ripest cherries from his cap and spitting out the stones, which flew almost as far as my feet. His indifference enraged me beyond measure. ‘What is the use,’ thought I, ‘of depriving him of life, when he attaches no value whatever to it?’ A malicious thought flashed through my mind. I lowered my pistol.

“ ‘You don’t seem to be ready for death just at present,’ I said to him: ‘you wish to have your breakfast; I do not wish to hinder you.’

“ ‘You are not hindering me in the least,’ he replied. ‘Have the goodness to fire, or just as you please—you owe me a shot; I shall always be at your service.’

“I turned to the seconds, informing them that I had no intention of firing that day, and with that the duel came to an end.

“I resigned my commission and retired to this little place. Since then, not a day has passed that I have not thought of revenge. And now my hour has arrived.”

Silvio took from his pocket the letter that he had received that morning, and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed to be his business agent) wrote to him from Moscow, that a certain person was going to be married to a young and beautiful girl.

“You can guess,” said Silvio, “who the certain person is. I am going to Moscow. We shall see if he will look death in the face with as much indifference now, when he is on the eve of being married, as he did once when he was eating cherries!”

With these words, Silvio rose, threw his cap upon the floor, and began pacing up and down the room like a tiger in his cage. I had listened to him in silence; strange conflicting feelings agitated me.

The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio grasped my hand tightly, and we embraced each other. He seated himself in the carriage, in which there were two suitcases, one containing his pistols, the other his effects. We said good-bye once more, and the horses galloped off.


## II

SEVERAL YEARS passed, and family circumstances compelled me to settled in a poor little village of the N—— district. Occupied with farming, I continued to sigh in secret for my former active and carefree life. The most difficult thing of all was having to accustom myself to passing the spring and winter evenings in perfect solitude. Until the hour for dinner I managed to pass away the time somehow or other, talking with the bailiff, riding about to inspect the work, or going around to look at the new buildings; but as soon as it began to get dark, I positively did not know what to do with myself. The few books that I had found in the cupboards and storerooms, I already knew by heart. All the stories that my housekeeper Kirilovna could remember, I had heard over and over again. The songs of the peasant women made me feel depressed. I tried drinking spirits, but it made my head ache; and moreover, I confess I was afraid of becoming a drunkard from mere chagrin, that is to say, the saddest kind of drunkard, of which I had seen many examples in our district. I had no near neighbors, except two or three topers, whose conversation consisted for the most part of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was preferable to their society.

Four versts from my house there was a rich estate belonging to the Countess B——; but nobody lived there except the steward. The Countess had only visited her estate once, during the first year of her married life, and then she had remained there only a month. But in the second spring of my secluded life, a report was circulated that the Countess, with her husband, was coming to spend the summer on her estate. Indeed, they arrived at the beginning of June.

The arrival of a rich neighbor is an important event in the lives of country people. The landed proprietors and the people of their household talk about it for two months beforehand, and for three years afterwards. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor affected me strongly. I burned with impatience to see her, and the first Sunday after her arrival, I set out after dinner for the village of A——, to pay my respects to the Countess and her husband, as their nearest neighbor and most humble servant.

A lackey conducted me into the Count’s study, and then went to announce me. The spacious room was furnished with every possible luxury. The walls were lined with bookcases, each surmounted by a bronze bust; over the marble mantelpiece was a large mirror; on the floor was a green cloth covered with carpets. Unaccustomed to luxury in my own poor corner, and not having seen the wealth of other people for a long time, I awaited the appearance of the Count with some little trepidation, as a suppliant from the provinces awaits the entrance of the minister. The door opened, and a handsome-looking man, of about thirty-two, entered the room. The Count approached me with a frank and friendly air: I tried to be self-possessed and began to introduce myself, but he anticipated me. We sat down. His conversation, which was easy and agreeable, soon dissipated my awkward bashfulness; and I was already beginning to recover my usual composure, when the Countess suddenly entered, and I became more confused than ever. She was indeed beautiful. The Count presented me. I wished to appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unconstraint, the more awkward I felt. In order to give me time to recover myself and to become accustomed to my new acquaintances, they began to talk to each other, treating me as a good neighbor, and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and pictures. I am no judge of pictures, but one of them attracted my attention. It represented some view in Switzerland, but it was not the painting that struck me, but the circumstance that the canvas was shot through by two bullets, one planted just above the other.

“A good shot, that!” said I, turning to the Count.

“Yes,” replied he, “a very remarkable shot…. Do you shoot well?” he continued.

“Tolerably,” I replied, rejoicing that the conversation had turned at last upon a subject that was familiar to me. “At thirty paces I can manage to hit a card without fail—I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am used to.”

“Really?” said the Countess, with a look of the greatest interest. “And you, my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?”

“Some day,” replied the Count, “we will try. In my time I did not shoot badly, but it is now four years since I touched a pistol.”

“Oh!” I observed. “In that case, I don’t mind laying a wager that Your Excellency will not hit the card at twenty paces: the pistol demands daily practice. I know that from experience. In our regiment I was reckoned one of the best shots. It once happened that I did not touch a pistol for a whole month, as I had sent mine to be mended; and would you believe it, Your Excellency, the first time I began to shoot again, I missed a bottle four times in succession at twenty paces! Our captain, a witty and amusing fellow, happened to be standing by, and he said to me: ‘It is evident, my friend, that you will not lift your hand against the bottle.’ No, Your Excellency, you must not neglect to practice, or your hand will soon lose its cunning. The best shot that I ever met used to shoot at least three times every day before dinner. It was as much his custom to do this, as it was to drink his daily glass of brandy.”

The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.

“And what sort of a shot was he?” asked the Count.

“Well, it was this way with him, Your Excellency: if he saw a fly settle on the wall—you smile, Countess, but, before Heaven, it is the truth—if he saw a fly, he would call out: ‘Kuzka, my pistol!’ Kuzka would bring him a loaded pistol—bang!—and the fly would be crushed against the wall.”

“Wonderful!” said the Count. “And what was his name?”

“Silvio, Your Excellency.”

“Silvio!” exclaimed the Count, starting up. “Did you know Silvio?”

“How could I help knowing him, Your Excellency: we were intimate friends; he was received in our regiment like a brother officer, but it is now five years since I had any news of him. Then Your Excellency also knew him?”

“Oh, yes, I knew him very well. Did he ever tell you of one very strange incident in his life?”

“Does Your Excellency refer to the slap in the face that he received from some scamp at a ball?”

“Did he tell you the name of this scamp?”

“No, Your Excellency, he never mentioned his name…. Ah! Your Excellency,” I continued, guessing the truth; “pardon me … I did not know … could it have been you?”

“Yes, I myself,” replied the Count, with a look of extraordinary distress; “and that picture with a bullet through it is a memento of our last meeting.”

“Ah, my dear,” said the Countess, “for Heaven’s sake, do not speak about that; it would be too terrible for me to listen to.”

“No,” replied the Count; “I will relate everything. He knows how I insulted his friend, and it is only right that he should know how Silvio revenged himself.”

The Count pushed a chair toward me, and with the liveliest interest I listened to the following story:

“Five years ago I got married. The first month—the honeymoon—I spent here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the happiest moments of my life, as well as for one of its most painful recollections.

“One evening we went out together for a ride on horseback. My wife’s horse became restive; she grew frightened, gave the reins to me, and returned home on foot. I rode on before. In the courtyard I saw a traveling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat waiting for me a man who would not give his name, but who merely said that he had business with me. I entered the room and saw in the darkness a man, covered with dust and wearing a beard of several days’ growth. He was standing there, near the fireplace. I approached him, trying to remember his features.

“ ‘You do not recognize me, Count?’ said he, in a quivering voice.

“ ‘Silvio!’ I cried, and I confess that I felt as if my hair had suddenly stood on end.

“ ‘Exactly,’ continued he. ‘There is a shot due me, and I have come to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?’

“His pistol protruded from a side pocket. I measured twelve paces and took my stand there in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before my wife arrived. He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter, and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim…. I counted the seconds … I thought of her … A terrible minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand.

“ ‘I regret,’ said he, ‘that the pistol is not loaded with cherry stones … the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel, but a murder. I am not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us begin all over again; we will cast lots as to who shall fire first.’ My head went round … I think I raised some objection…. At last we loaded another pistol, and rolled up two pieces of paper. He placed these latter in his cap—the same through which I had once sent a bullet—and again I drew the first number.

“ ‘You are devilishly lucky, Count,’ said he, with a smile that I shall never forget.

“I don’t know what was the matter with me, or how it was that he managed to make me do it … but I fired and hit that picture.”

The Count pointed with his finger to the perforated picture; his face burned like fire; the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief; and I could not restrain an exclamation.

“I fired,” continued the Count, “and, thank Heaven, missed my aim. Then Silvio—at that moment he was really terrible—Silvio raised his hand to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opens, Masha rushes into the room, and with a shriek throws herself upon my neck. Her presence restored to me all my courage.

“ ‘My dear,’ said I to her, ‘don’t you see that we are joking? How frightened you are! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back to us; I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.’

“Masha still doubted.

“ ‘Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?’ said she, turning to the terrible Silvio. ‘Is it true that you are only joking?’

“ ‘He is always joking, Countess,’ replied Silvio: ‘once he gave me a slap in the face in jest; on another occasion he sent a bullet through my cap in jest; and just now, when he fired at me and missed me, it was all in jest. And now I feel inclined to have a joke.’

“With these words he raised his pistol to take aim at me—right before her! Masha threw herself at his feet.

“ ‘Rise, Masha; are you not ashamed!’ I cried in a rage. ‘And you, sir, will you stop making fun of a poor woman? Will you fire or not?’

“ ‘I will not,’ replied Silvio. ‘I am satisfied. I have seen your confusion, your alarm. I forced you to fire at me. That is sufficient. You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.’

“Then he turned to go, but pausing in the doorway, and looking at the picture that my shot had passed through, he fired at it almost without taking aim, and disappeared. My wife had fainted away; the servants did not venture to stop him, the mere look of him filled them with terror. He went out upon the steps, called his coachman, and drove off before I could recover myself.”

The Count fell silent. In this way I learned the end of the story, whose beginning had once made such a deep impression upon me. The hero of it I never saw again. It is said that Silvio commanded a detachment of Hetaerists during the revolt under Alexander Ypsilanti, and that he was killed in the battle of Skulyani.


## The Snowstorm


Horses dash across the slopes,

Trampling snow deep-drifted …

By the wayside stands a church,

Lonely cross uplifted.

***

Suddenly a snowstorm flings

Tufted flakes about us,

O’er the sledge with whistling wing

Flies a crow to flout us.

Weird his cry, foreboding grief!

Gathering their forces,

Manes upraised, toward the dark

Peer the speeding horses …

ZHUKOVSKY


Toward the end of the year 1811, a memorable period for us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R—— was living on his estate of Nenaradovo. He was celebrated throughout the district for his hospitality and kindheartedness. The neighbors were constantly visiting him: some to eat and drink; some to play “Boston” at five kopecks with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna; and some to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a pale, slender girl of seventeen. She was considered wealthy, and many desired her for themselves or for their sons.

Marya Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in love. The object of her choice was a poor sub-lieutenant, who was then on leave of absence in his village.

It need scarcely be mentioned that the young man returned her passion with equal ardor, and that the parents of his beloved one, observing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to think of him, and gave him a worse reception than if he were a retired assessor.

Our lovers corresponded with each other and daily saw each other alone in the little pine wood or near the old chapel. There they exchanged vows of eternal love, lamented their cruel fate, and formed various plans. Corresponding and conversing in this way, they arrived quite naturally at the following conclusion:

If we cannot exist without each other, and the will of hard-hearted parents stands in the way of our happiness, why cannot we do without their consent?

Needless to mention that this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man, and that it was very congenial to the romantic imagination of Marya Gavrilovna.

The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir Nikolayevich in every letter implored her to give herself up to him, to get married secretly, to hide for some time, and then throw themselves at the feet of their parents, who would, without any doubt, be touched at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would assuredly say to them: “Children, come to our arms!”

Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, and many plans for elopement were rejected. At last she consented: on the appointed day she was not to take supper, but was to retire to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in the plot; they were both to go into the garden by the back stairs, and behind the garden, they would find ready a sledge, into which they were to get, and then drive straight to the church of Zhadrino, a village about five versts from Nenaradovo, where Vladimir would be waiting for them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel, wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in the most touching terms, urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse for the step she was taking, and wound up with the assurance that she would consider it the happiest moment of her life, when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents.

After having sealed both letters with a Tula seal, upon which were engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw herself upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off: but even then she was constantly being awakened by terrible dreams. First it seemed to her that at the very moment when she seated herself in the sledge, in order to go and get married, her father stopped her, dragged her over the snow with agonizing rapidity, and threw her into a dark, bottomless abyss, down which she fell headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and bloodstained. With his dying breath he implored her in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him…. Other abominable and absurd visions floated before her one after another. At last she arose, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother observed her uneasiness; their tender solicitude and incessant inquiries: “What is the matter with you, Masha? Are you ill, Masha?” cut her to the heart. She tried to reassure them and to appear cheerful, but in vain.

Evening came. The thought, that this was the last day she would pass in the bosom of her family, weighed upon her heart. She was more dead than alive. In secret she took leave of everybody, of all the objects that surrounded her.

Supper was served; her heart began to beat violently. In a trembling voice she declared that she did not want any supper, and then took leave of her father and mother. They kissed her and blessed her as usual, and she could hardly restrain herself from weeping.

On reaching her own room, she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears. Her maid urged her to be calm and to take courage. Everything was ready. In half an hour Masha would leave forever her parents’ house, her room, and her peaceful girlish life….

Outside a snowstorm was raging; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled, and everything seemed to her to portend misfortune.

Soon all was quiet in the house: everyone was asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm cloak, took her box in her hand, and went down the back staircase. Her maid followed her with two bundles. They descended into the garden. The snowstorm had not subsided; the wind blew in their faces, as if trying to stop the young criminal. With difficulty they reached the end of the garden. On the road a sledge awaited them. The chilled horses would not keep still; Vladimir’s coachman was walking up and down in front of them, trying to restrain their impatience. He helped the young lady and her maid into the sledge, stowed away the box and the bundles, seized the reins, and the horses dashed off.

Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and to the skill of Teryoshka the coachman, we will return to our young lover.

All day long Vladimir had been driving about. In the morning he paid a visit to the priest of Zhadrino and, having come to an agreement with him after a great deal of difficulty, he then set out to seek for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he presented himself, a retired officer about forty years old, whose name was Dravin, consented with pleasure. The adventure, he declared, reminded him of his young days and his pranks in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay to dinner with him, and assured him that he would have no difficulty in finding the other two witnesses. And, indeed, immediately after dinner, appeared the surveyor Schmidt, wearing mustaches and spurs, and the son of the captain of police, a lad of sixteen, who had recently entered the Uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even vowed that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with rapture, and returned home to get everything ready.

It had been dark for some time. He dispatched his faithful Teryoshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed instructions, ordered for himself the one-horse sleigh and set out alone, without any coachman, for Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was due to arrive in about a couple of hours. He knew the road well, and it was only a twenty-minute ride.

But Vladimir scarcely found himself on the open road, when the wind rose and such a snowstorm came on that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was completely hidden; the landscape disappeared in a thick yellow fog through which fell white flakes of snow; earth and sky merged into one. Vladimir found himself off the road, and tried vainly to get back to it. His horse went on at random, and at every moment climbed either a snowdrift or sank into a hole, so that the sledge kept turning over. Vladimir’s one effort was not to lose the right direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrino wood. Another ten minutes elapsed—still no wood was to be seen. Vladimir drove across a field intersected by deep ravines. The snowstorm did not abate, the sky did not become any clearer. The horse began to grow tired, and the sweat rolled from Vladimir in great drops, in spite of the fact that he was constantly being half buried in the snow.

At last Vladimir perceived that he was going in the wrong direction. He stopped, began to think, to recollect and compare, and he felt convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He turned to the right now. His horse could scarcely move forward. He had now been on the road for more than an hour. Zhadrino could not be far off. But on and on he went, and still no end to the field—nothing but snowdrifts and ravines. The sledge was constantly turning over, and as constantly being set right again. The time was passing; Vladimir began to grow seriously uneasy.

At last something dark appeared in the distance. Vladimir directed his course toward it. On drawing near, he perceived that it was a wood.

“Thank Heaven!” he thought, “I am not far off now.”

He drove along by the edge of the wood, hoping by and by to come upon the well-known road or to pass round the wood; Zhadrino was situated just behind it. He soon found the road, and plunged among the dark trees, now denuded of leaves by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse recovered courage, and Vladimir felt reassured.

But he drove on and on, and Zhadrino was not to be seen; there was no end to the wood. Vladimir discovered with horror that he had entered an unknown forest. Despair took possession of him. He whipped the horse; the poor animal broke into a trot, but soon slackened its pace, and in about a quarter of an hour it was scarcely able to drag one leg after the other, in spite of all the exertions of the unfortunate Vladimir.

Gradually the trees began to get sparser, and Vladimir emerged from the forest; but Zhadrino was not to be seen. It must now have been about midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove on at random. Meanwhile the storm had subsided, the clouds dispersed, and before him lay a level plain covered with a white undulating carpet. The night was tolerably clear. He saw, not far off, a little village, consisting of four or five houses. Vladimir drove toward it. At the first cottage he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the window and began to knock. After a few minutes, the wooden shutter was raised, and an old man thrust out his gray beard.

“What do you want?”

“Is Zhadrino far from here?”

“Zhadrino? Far from here?”

“Yes, yes! Is it far?”

“Not far; about ten versts.”

At this reply, Vladimir clutched his hair and stood motionless, like a man condemned to death.

“Where do you come from?” continued the old man.

Vladimir had not the heart to answer the question.

“Listen, old man,” said he, “can you find any horses to take me to Zhadrino?”

“How should we have such things as horses?” replied the peasant.

“Can I at least get a guide? I will pay him whatever he asks.”

“Wait,” said the old man, closing the shutter, “I will send my son out to you; he will direct you.”

Vladimir waited. But a minute had scarcely elapsed when he began knocking again. The shutter was raised, and the beard again appeared.

“What do you want?”

“What about your son?”

“He’ll be out presently; he is putting on his boots. Are you cold? Come in and warm yourself.”

“Thank you; send your son out quickly.”

The door creaked: a lad came out with a cudgel and led the way, now pointing out the road, now searching for it among the snowdrifts.

“What time is it?” Vladimir asked him.

“It will soon be daylight,” replied the young peasant. Vladimir did not say another word.

The cocks were crowing, and it was already light when they reached Zhadrino. The church was locked. Vladimir paid the guide and drove into the priest’s courtyard. His troika was not there. What news awaited him!…

But let us return to the worthy proprietors of Nenaradovo, and see what is happening there.

Nothing.

The old people awoke and went into the parlor, Gavrila Gavrilovich in a nightcap and flannel doublet, Praskovya Petrovna in a wadded dressing gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent a servant to ask Marya Gavrilovna how she was and how she had passed the night. The servant returned, saying that the young lady had not slept very well, but that she felt better now, and that she would come down presently into the parlor. And, indeed, the door opened and Marya Gavrilovna entered the room and wished her father and mother good morning.

“How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.

“Better, Papa,” replied Masha.

“You must have gotten your headache yesterday from charcoal fumes,” said Praskaovya Petrovna.

“Very likely, Mamma,” replied Masha.

The day passed happily enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. They sent to town for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the sick girl delirious. A violent fever ensued, and for two weeks the poor patient hovered on the brink of the grave.

Nobody in the house knew anything about her intended elopement. The letters, written the evening before, had been burned; and her maid, dreading the wrath of her master, had not whispered a word about it to anybody. The priest, the retired officer, the mustached surveyor, and the little Uhlan were discreet, and not without reason. Teryoshka, the coachman, never uttered one word too much about it, even when he was drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators.

But Marya Gavrilovna herself divulged her secret during her delirious ravings. Her words were so disconnected, however, that her mother, who never left her bedside, could only understand from them that her daughter was deeply in love with Vladimir Nikolayevich, and that probably love was the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her neighbors, and at last it was unanimously decided that such was evidently Marya Gavrilovna’s fate, that a woman cannot escape her destined husband even on horseback, that poverty is not a crime, that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc., etc. Moral maxims are wonderfully useful in those cases where we can invent little in our own justification.

In the meantime the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long time in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich. He was afraid of the usual reception. It was resolved to send and announce to him an unexpected piece of good news: the consent of Marya’s parents to his marriage with their daughter. But what was the astonishment of the proprietor of Nenaradovo, when, in reply to their invitation, they received from him a half-insane letter. He informed them that he would never set foot in their house again, and begged them to forget an unhappy creature whose only hope was death. A few days afterwards they heard that Vladimir had joined the army again. This was in the year 1812.

For a long time they did not dare to announce this to Masha, who was now convalescent. She never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some months afterwards, finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted away, and it was feared that she would have another attack of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit had no serious consequences.

Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her the heiress to all his property. But the inheritance did not console her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, vowing that she would never leave her. They both quitted Nenaradovo, the scene of so many sad recollections, and went to live on another estate.

Suitors crowded round the charming heiress, but she gave not the slightest hope to any of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her to make a choice; but Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and became pensive. Vladimir no longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed to be held sacred by Masha; at least, she treasured up everything that could remind her of him: books that he had once read, his drawings, his music, and verses that he had copied out for her. The neighbors, hearing of all this, were astonished at her constancy, and awaited with curiosity the hero who should at last triumph over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin Artemis.

Meanwhile the war had ended gloriously. Our regiments returned from abroad, and the people went out to meet them. The bands played the songs of the conquered: “Vive Henri-Quatre,” Tyrolese waltzes and airs from “Joconde.” Officers, who had set out for the war almost mere lads, returned, grown men in the martial air, their breasts hung with crosses. The soldiers chatted gaily among themselves, constantly using French and German words in their speech. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and enthusiasm! How the Russian heart throbbed at the word “Fatherland”! How sweet were the tears of reunion! With what unanimity did we mingle feelings of national pride with love for the Czar! And for him—what a moment!

The women, the Russian women, were then incomparable. Their usual coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating, when welcoming the conquerors they cried “Hurrah!”

“And tossed their caps into the air!”

What officer of that time does not confess that to the Russian women he was indebted for his best and most precious reward?

At this brilliant period Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in the province of——, and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm was, if possible, even greater. The appearance of an officer in those sections was for him a veritable triumph, and the lover in a frock coat fared ill in his vicinity.

We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to withdraw when the wounded Colonel Burmin of the Hussars, with the Order of St. George in his buttonhole, and with an “interesting pallor,” as the young ladies of the neighborhood observed, appeared at the manor. He was about twenty-six years of age. He had obtained leave of absence to visit his estate, which was near that of Marya Gavrilovna. Marya bestowed special attention upon him. In his presence her habitual pensiveness disappeared. It cannot be said that she flirted with him, but a poet, observing her behavior, would have said:

“Se amor non è, che dunque?”

Burmin was indeed a very charming young man. He had the sort of mind which pleases women: decorous and keen, without any pretensions, and inclined to carefree mockery. His behavior toward Marya Gavrilovna was simple and frank, but whatever she said or did, both his soul and his eyes followed her. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest disposition, though it was reported that he had once been a terrible rake; but this did not injure him in the opinion of Marya Gavrilovna, who—like all young ladies—excused with pleasure follies that gave indication of boldness and ardor of temperament.

But more than anything else—more than his tenderness, more than his agreeable conversation, more than his interesting pallor, more than his arm in a sling—the silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and imagination. She could not but confess that he pleased her very much; probably he, too, with his intelligence and experience, had already observed that she singled him out; how was it then that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard his declaration? What restrained him? Was it timidity, or pride, or the coquetry of a crafty ladies’ man? It was a puzzle to her. After long reflection, she came to the conclusion that timidity alone was the cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him by greater attention and, if circumstances should render it necessary, even by an exhibition of tenderness. She was preparing a startling dénouement, and waited with impatience for the moment of the romantic explanation. A secret, of whatever nature it may be, always presses heavily upon the female heart. Her strategy had the desired success; at least, Burmin fell into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested with such fire upon her, that the decisive moment seemed close at hand. The neighbors spoke about the marriage as if it were a settled matter, and good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had at last found a worthy suitor.

On one occasion the old lady was sitting alone in the parlor, playing patience, when Burmin entered the room and immediately inquired for Marya Gavrilovna.

“She is in the garden,” replied the old lady. “Go out to her, and I will wait here for you.”

Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the cross and thought: “Perhaps the business will be settled today!”

Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna near the pond, under a willow tree, with a book in her hands, and in a white dress: a veritable heroine of a novel. After the first few questions, Marya Gavrilovna purposely allowed the conversation to drop, thereby increasing their mutual embarrassment, from which there was no possible way of escape except only by a sudden and decisive declaration.

And that is what happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, declared that he had long sought an opportunity to open his heart to her, and requested a moment’s attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed her book and cast down her eyes, as a sign of consent.

“I love you,” said Burmin. “I love you passionately.”

Marya Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still further. “I have acted imprudently in indulging the sweet habit of seeing and hearing you daily….” Marya Gavrilovna recalled to mind the first letter of St. Preux. “But it is now too late to resist my fate; the remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and the consolation of my life, but there still remains a painful duty for me to perform—to reveal to you a terrible secret which will place between us an insurmountable barrier….”

“That barrier has always existed,” interrupted Marya Gavrilovna hastily. “I could never be your wife.”

“I know,” he replied calmly. “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of mourning … Dear, kind Marya Gavrilovna, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have consented to make me happy, if …”

“Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak. You torture me.”

“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but—I am the most miserable creature under the sun—I am already married!”

Marya Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.

“I am already married,” continued Burmin. “I have been married four years, and I do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I shall ever see her again!”

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. “How very strange! Continue: I will relate to you afterwards…. But continue, I beg of you.”

“At the beginning of the year 1812,” said Burmin, “I was hastening to Vilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving late one evening at one of the post-stations, I ordered the horses to be got ready as quickly as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on, and the postmaster and drivers advised me to wait till it had passed over. I followed their advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took possession of me: it seemed as if someone were pushing me forward. Meanwhile the snowstorm did not subside; I could endure it no longer, and again ordering out the horses, I started off at the height of the storm. The driver conceived the idea of following the course of the river, which would shorten our journey by three versts. The banks were covered with snow: the driver drove past the place where we should have come out upon the road, and so we found ourselves in an unknown part of the country…. The storm did not abate; I saw a light in the distance, and I ordered the driver to proceed toward it. We reached a village; in the wooden church there was a light. The church was open. Outside the fence stood several sledges, and people were passing in and out through the porch.

“ ‘This way! this way!’ cried several voices.

“I ordered the driver to proceed.

“ ‘In the name of Heaven, where have you been loitering?’ somebody said to me. ‘The bride has fainted away; the priest does not know what to do, and we were just getting ready to go back. Get out as quickly as you can.’

“I got out of the sledge without saying a word, and went into the church, which was feebly lit up by two or three tapers. A young girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another girl was rubbing her temples.

“ ‘Thank God!’ said the latter, ‘you have come at last. You have almost killed the young lady.’

“The old priest advanced toward me, and said: ‘Do you wish me to begin?’

“ ‘Begin, begin, Father,’ I replied absently.

“The young girl was raised up. She seemed to me not at all bad-looking…. Impelled by an incomprehensible, unpardonable levity, I placed myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the priest hurried on; three men and a maid supported the bride and only occupied themselves with her. We were married.

“ ‘Kiss each other!’ said the witnesses to us.

“My wife turned her pale face toward me. I was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: ‘Oh, it is not he! It is not he!’ and fell in a swoon.

“The witnesses gazed at me in alarm. I turned around and left the church without the least hindrance, flung myself into the kibitka and cried: ‘Drive off!’ ”

“My God!” exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. “And do you not know what became of your poor wife?”

“I do not know,” replied Burmin; “neither do I know the name of the village where I was married, nor the post-station where I set out from. At that time I attached so little importance to my wicked prank, that on leaving the church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the next morning after reaching the third station. The servant, who was then with me, died during the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever discovering the woman upon whom I played such a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged.”

“My God, my God!” cried Marya Gavrilovna, seizing him by the hand. “Then it was you! And you do not recognize me?”

Burmin blenched—and threw himself at her feet.


## The Undertaker


Are coffins not beheld each day,

The gray hairs of an aging world?

DERZHAVIN

The last of the effects of the undertaker, Adrian Prokhorov, were piled upon the hearse, and a couple of sorry-looking jades dragged themselves along for the fourth time from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya, whither the undertaker was removing with all his household. After locking up the shop, he posted upon the door a placard announcing that the house was for sale or rent, and then made his way on foot to his new abode. On approaching the little yellow house, which had so long captivated his imagination, and which at last he had bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker was astonished to find that his heart did not rejoice. When he crossed the unfamiliar threshold and found his new home in the greatest confusion, he sighed for his old hovel, where for eighteen years the strictest order had prevailed. He began to scold his two daughters and the servants for their slowness, and then set to work to help them himself. Order was soon established; the ikon case, the cupboard with the crockery, the table, the sofa, and the bed occupied the corners reserved for them in the back room; in the kitchen and parlor were placed the master’s wares—coffins of all colors and of all sizes, together with cupboards containing mourning hats, cloaks and torches.

Over the gate was placed a sign representing a plump Cupid with an inverted torch in his hand and bearing this inscription:

“Plain and colored coffins sold and upholstered here; coffins also let out on hire, and old ones repaired.”

The girls retired to their bedroom; Adrian made a tour of inspection of his quarters, and then sat down by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared.

The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott have both represented their grave-diggers as merry and facetious individuals, in order that the contrast might more forcibly strike our imagination. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example, and we are compelled to confess that the disposition of our undertaker was in perfect harmony with his gloomy métier. Adrian Prokhorov was usually sullen and pensive. He rarely opened his mouth, except to scold his daughters when he found them standing idle and gazing out of the window at the passers-by, or to ask for his wares an exorbitant price from those who had the misfortune—or sometimes the pleasure—of needing them. And so Adrian, sitting near the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was immersed as usual in melancholy reflections. He thought of the pouring rain which, just a week before, had commenced to beat down during the funeral of the retired brigadier. Many of the cloaks had shrunk in consequence of the downpour, and many of the hats had been put quite out of shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, for his old stock of funeral apparel was in a pitiable condition. He hoped to compensate himself for his losses by the burial of old Trukhina, the merchant’s wife, who for more than a year had been upon the point of death. But Trukhina lay dying in Razgulyay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, in spite of their promise, would not take the trouble to send so far for him, but would make arrangements with the nearest undertaker.

These reflections were suddenly interrupted by three masonic knocks at the door.

“Who is there?” asked the undertaker.

The door opened, and a man, who at first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room, and with a jovial air advanced toward the undertaker.

“Pardon me, good neighbor,” said he in that Russian dialect which to this day we cannot hear without a smile, “pardon me for disturbing you…. I wished to make your acquaintance as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street, in that little house just facing your windows. Tomorrow I am going to celebrate my silver wedding, and I have come to invite you and your daughters to dine with us.”

The invitation was cordially accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to seat himself and take a cup of tea, and thanks to the open-hearted disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they were soon engaged in friendly conversation.

“How is business with you?” asked Adrian.

“So so,” replied Schultz; “I can’t complain. But my wares are not like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead cannot do without coffins.”

“Very true,” observed Adrian; “but if a living person hasn’t anything to buy shoes with, he goes barefoot, and holds his peace, if you please; but a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing.”

In this manner the conversation was carried on between them for some time; at last the shoemaker rose and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation.

The next day, exactly at twelve o’clock, the undertaker and his daughters issued from the wicket door of their newly purchased residence, and went to their neighbor’s. I will not stop to describe the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhorov, or the European toilettes of Akulina and Darya, deviating in this respect from the custom of modern novelists. But I do not think it superfluous to observe that the two girls had on the yellow hats and red shoes, which they were accustomed to don on solemn occasions only.

The shoemaker’s little dwelling was filled with guests, consisting chiefly of German artisans with their wives and apprentices. Of the Russian officials there was present but one, Yurko the Finn, a constable, who, in spite of his humble calling, was the special object of the host’s attention. Like Pogorelsky’s postman,[5] for twenty-five years he had faithfully discharged his duties. The conflagration of 1812, which destroyed the ancient capital, destroyed also his little yellow booth. But immediately after the expulsion of the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, painted gray and with little white Doric columns, and Yurko again began to pace to and fro before it, with his ax and armor of coarse cloth. He was known to the greater part of the Germans who lived near the Nikitskaya Gate, and some of them had even spent Sunday night beneath his roof.

Adrian immediately made himself acquainted with him, as with a man whom, sooner or later, he might have need of, and when the guests took their places at the table, they sat down beside each other. Herr Schultz and his wife, and their daughter Lotchen, a young girl of seventeen, did the honors of the table and helped the cook to serve. The beer flowed in streams; Yurko ate like four, and Adrian in no way yielded to him; his daughters, however, stood upon their dignity. The conversation, which was carried on in German, gradually grew more and more noisy. Suddenly the host requested a moment’s attention, and uncorking a sealed bottle, he said loudly in Russian: “To the health of my good Louise!”

The imitation champagne foamed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his partner, and the guests drank noisily to the health of the good Louise.

“To the health of my amiable guests!” exclaimed the host, uncorking a second bottle; and the guests thanked him by draining their glasses once more.

Then followed a succession of toasts. The health of each individual guest was drunk; they drank to Moscow and to a round dozen of little German towns; they drank to the health of all guilds in general and of each in particular; they drank to the health of the masters and apprentices. Adrian drank with assiduity, and became so jovial that he proposed a facetious toast himself. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: “To the health of those for whom we work, our customers!”

This proposal, like all the others, was joyously and unanimously received. The guests began to salute each other; the tailor bowed to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both, the whole company to the baker, and so on. In the midst of these mutual congratulations, Yurko exclaimed, turning to his neighbor: “Come, little father! Drink to the health of your corpses!”

Everybody laughed, but the undertaker considered himself insulted, and frowned. Nobody noticed it, the guests continued to drink, and the bells had already rung for vespers when they rose from the table.

The guests dispersed at a late hour, the greater part of them in a very merry mood. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face seemed as if bound in red morocco, linked their arms in those of Yurko and conducted him back to his booth, thus observing the proverb: “One good turn deserves another.”

The undertaker returned home drunk and angry.

“Why is it,” he argued aloud, “why is it that my trade is not as honest as any other? Is an undertaker brother to the hangman? Why did those heathens laugh? Is an undertaker a buffoon? I wanted to invite them to my new house and give them a feast, but now I’ll do nothing of the kind. Instead of inviting them, I will invite those for whom I work: the orthodox dead.”

“What is the matter, Master?” said the servant, who was engaged at that moment in taking off his boots. “Why do you talk such nonsense? Make the sign of the cross! Invite the dead to your new house! What nonsense!”

“Yes, by God! I will invite them,” continued Adrian. “And that, too, for tomorrow!… Do me the favor, my benefactors, to come and feast with me tomorrow evening; I will regale you with what God has sent me.”

With these words the undertaker turned into bed and soon began to snore.

It was still dark when Adrian was roused out of his sleep. Trukhina, the merchant’s wife, had died during the course of that very night, and a special messenger was sent off on horseback by her clerk to carry the news to Adrian. The undertaker gave him ten kopecks to buy brandy with, dressed himself as hastily as possible, took a droshky and set out for Razgulyay. At the gate of the house in which the deceased lay, the police had already taken their stand, and the tradespeople were busily moving back and forth, like ravens that smell a dead body. The deceased lay upon a table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition. Around her stood her relatives, neighbors, and domestic servants. All the windows were open; tapers were burning; and the priests were reading the prayers for the dead. Adrian went up to the nephew of Trukhina, a young shopman in a fashionable jacket, and informed him that the coffin, wax candles, pall, and the other funeral accessories would be immediately delivered in good order. The heir thanked him in an absentminded manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but would rely upon his acting in everything according to his conscience. The undertaker, in accordance with his custom, swore that he would not charge him too much, exchanged significant glances with the clerk, and then departed to commence operations.

The whole day was spent in passing to and fro between Razgulyay and the Nikitskaya Gate. Toward evening everything was finished, and he returned home on foot, after having dismissed his driver. It was a moonlight night. The undertaker reached the Nikitskaya Gate in safety. Near the Church of the Ascension he was hailed by our acquaintance Yurko, who, recognizing the undertaker, wished him good night. It was late. The undertaker was just approaching his house, when suddenly he fancied he saw someone approach his gate, open the wicket, and disappear within.

“What does that mean?” thought Adrian. “Who can be wanting me again? Can it be a thief come to rob me? Or have my foolish girls got lovers coming after them? It means no good, I fear!”

And the undertaker thought of calling his friend Yurko to his assistance. But at that moment, another person approached the wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house hastening toward him, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he was not able to examine it closely.

“You are favoring me with a visit,” said Adrian, out of breath. “Walk in, I beg of you.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony, sir,” replied the other, in a hollow voice; “you go first, and show your guests the way.”

Adrian had no time to spend upon ceremony. The wicket was open; he ascended the steps followed by the other. Adrian thought he could hear people walking about in his rooms.

“What the devil does all this mean!” he thought to himself, and he hastened to enter. But the sight that met his eyes caused his legs to give way beneath him.

The room was full of corpses. The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. Adrian, with horror, recognized in them people that he himself had buried, and in the guest who had entered with him, the brigadier who had been buried during the pouring rain. They all, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the undertaker, with bowings and salutations, except one poor man lately buried gratis, who, conscious and ashamed of his rags, did not venture to approach, but meekly kept to a corner. All the others were decently dressed: the female corpses in caps and ribbons, the officials in uniforms, but with their beards unshaven, the tradesmen in their holiday caftans.

“You see, Prokhorov,” said the brigadier in the name of all the honorable company, “we have all risen in response to your invitation. Only those have stopped at home who were unable to come, who have crumbled to pieces and have nothing left but fleshless bones. But even of these there was one who hadn’t the patience to remain behind—so much did he want to come and see you….”

At this moment a little skeleton pushed his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled affably at the undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and rotten linen hung on him here and there as on a pole, and the bones of his feet rattled inside his big jackboots, like pestles in mortars.

“You do not recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Don’t you remember the retired sergeant of the Guard, Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same to whom, in the year 1799, you sold your first coffin, and a deal one at that, instead of oak as agreed?”

With these words the corpse stretched out his bony arms toward him; but Adrian, collecting all his strength, shrieked and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled to pieces. Among the corpses arose a murmur of indignation; all stood up for the honor of their companion, and they overwhelmed Adrian with such threats and curses, that the poor host, deafened by their shrieks and almost crushed to death, lost his presence of mind, fell upon the bones of the retired sergeant of the Guard, and swooned away.

For some time the sun had been shining upon the bed on which the undertaker lay. At last he opened his eyes and saw before him the servant attending to the samovar. With horror, Adrian recalled all the incidents of the previous day. Trukhina, the brigadier, and the sergeant Kurilkin rose vaguely before his imagination. He waited in silence for the servant to open the conversation and inform him of the events of the night.

“How you have slept, Adrian Prokhorovich!” said Aksinya, handing him his dressing gown. “Your neighbor, the tailor, has been here, and the constable also called to inform you that today is his name-day; but you were so sound asleep, that we did not wish to wake you.”

“Did anyone come for me from the late Trukhina?”

“The late? Is she dead, then?”

“What a fool you are! Didn’t you yourself help me yesterday to prepare the things for her funeral?”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, Master, or have you not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday’s drinking bout? What funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at the German’s, and then came home drunk and threw yourself upon the bed, and have slept till this hour, when the bells have already rung for Mass.”

“Really!” said the undertaker, greatly relieved.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the servant.

“Well, since that is the case, make tea as quickly as possible and call my daughters.”


## The Postmaster


This tyrant, a collegiate recorder,

Still keeps the posting station in good order.

PRINCE VYAZEMSKY

Who has not cursed postmasters, who has not quarreled with them? Who, in a moment of anger, has not demanded from them the fatal book in order to record in it unavailing complaints of their extortions, rudeness and carelessness? Who does not look upon them as monsters of the human race, equal to the attorneys of old, or, at least, the Murom highwaymen? Let us, however, be just; let us place ourselves in their position, and perhaps we shall begin to judge them with more indulgence. What is a postmaster? A veritable martyr of the fourteenth class,[6] protected by his rank from blows only, and that not always (I appeal to the conscience of my readers). What is the function of this tyrant, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Is he not an actual galley slave? He has no rest either day or night. All the vexation accumulated during the course of a wearisome journey the traveler vents upon the postmaster. Should the weather prove intolerable, the road abominable, the driver obstinate, the horses stubborn—the postmaster is to blame. Entering into his poor abode, the traveler looks upon him as an enemy, and the postmaster is fortunate if he succeeds in soon getting rid of his unbidden guest; but if there should happen to be no horses!… Heavens! What volleys of abuse, what threats are showered upon his head! When it rains, when it is muddy, he is compelled to run about the village; during times of storm and bitter frost, he is glad to seek shelter in the entry, if only to enjoy a minute’s repose from the shouting and jostling of incensed travelers.

A general arrives: the trembling postmaster gives him the last two troikas, including that intended for the courier. The general drives off without uttering a word of thanks. Five minutes afterwards—a bell!… And a courier throws down upon the table before him his order for fresh post horses!… Let us bear all this well in mind, and, instead of anger, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few words more. During a period of twenty years I have traversed Russia in every direction; I know nearly all the post roads, and I am acquainted with several generations of drivers. There are very few postmasters that I do not know personally, and few with whom I have not had something to do. I hope shortly to publish the curious observations that I have noted down during my travels. For the present I will only say that the class of postmasters is presented to the public in a very false light. These much-calumniated officials are generally very peaceful persons, obliging by nature, disposed to be sociable, modest in their pretensions to honors and not too greedy. From their conversation (which traveling gentlemen very unreasonably scorn) much may be learned that is both curious and instructive. For my own part, I confess that I prefer their talk to that of some official of the sixth class traveling on government business.

It may easily be supposed that I have friends among the honorable body of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us together, and it is of him that I now intend to tell my amiable readers.

In the month of May of the year 1816, I happened to be traveling through the X. Government, along a route that has since been abandoned. I then held an inferior rank, and I traveled by post stages, paying the fare for two horses. As a consequence, the postmasters treated me with very little ceremony, and I often had to take by force what, in my opinion, belonged to me by right. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the postmaster, when the latter harnessed to the coach of some gentleman of rank, the horses prepared for me. It was a long time, too, before I could get accustomed to being served out of my turn by a discriminating flunky at the governor’s dinner. Today the one and the other seem to me to be in the natural order of things. Indeed, what would become of us if, instead of the generally observed rule: “Let rank honor rank,” another were to be brought into use, as for example: “Let mind honor mind?” What disputes would arise! And whom would the butler serve first? But to return to my story.

The day was hot. About three versts from the N. station a drizzling rain came on, and in a few minutes it began to pour down in torrents and I was drenched to the skin. On arriving at the station, my first care was to change my clothes as quickly as possible, my second to ask for some tea.

“Hi! Dunya!”[7] cried the postmaster. “Prepare the samovar and go and get some cream.”

At these words, a young girl of about fourteen years of age appeared from behind the partition; and ran out into the entry. Her beauty struck me.

“Is that your daughter?” I inquired of the postmaster.

“That is my daughter,” he replied, with a look of gratified pride; “and she is so sharp and sensible, just like her late mother.”

Then he began to register my traveling passport, and I occupied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy abode. They illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son. In the first, a venerable old man, in a nightcap and dressing gown, was taking leave of the restless lad, who was hastily accepting his blessing and a bag of money. In the next picture, the dissolute conduct of the young man was depicted in vivid colors: he was represented sitting at table surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further on, the ruined youth, in rags and a three-cornered hat, was tending swine and sharing with them their food: his face expressed deep grief and repentance. The last picture represented his return to his father: the good old man, in the same nightcap and dressing gown, runs forward to meet him; the Prodigal Son is on his knees; in the distance the cook is killing the fatted calf, and the elder brother is asking the servants the cause of all the rejoicing. Under each picture I read some suitable German verses. All this I have preserved in my memory to the present day, as well as the little pots of balsamine, the bed with gay curtains, and the other objects with which I was then surrounded. I can see, as though he were before me, the host himself, a man of about fifty years of age, healthy and vigorous, in his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

I had scarcely settled my account with my old driver, when Dunya returned with the samovar. The little coquette saw at the second glance the impression she had produced upon me; she lowered her large blue eyes; I began to talk to her; she answered me without the least timidity, like a girl who has seen the world. I offered her father a glass of punch, to Dunya herself I gave a cup of tea, and then the three of us began to converse together, as if we were old acquaintances.

The horses had long been ready, but I felt reluctant to take leave of the postmaster and his daughter. At last I bade them good-bye, the father wished me a pleasant journey, the daughter accompanied me to the coach. In the entry I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya consented…. I can reckon up a great many kisses since first I chose this occupation, but not one which has left behind such a long, such a pleasant recollection.

Several years passed, and circumstances led me to the same route, and to the same neighborhood.

“But,” thought I, “perhaps the old postmaster has been changed, and Dunya may already be married.”

The thought that one or the other of them might be dead also flashed through my mind, and I approached the N. station with a sad foreboding. The horses drew up before the little post-house. On entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures illustrating the story of the Prodigal Son. The table and the bed stood in the same places as before, but the flowers were no longer on the window sills, and everything around indicated decay and neglect.

The postmaster was asleep under his sheepskin coat; my arrival awoke him, and he stood up…. It was certainly Samson Vyrin, but how aged! While he was preparing to register my traveling passport, I gazed at his gray hair, the deep wrinkles upon his face, that had not been shaved for a long time, his bent back, and I was astonished to see how three or four years had been able to transform a vigorous individual into a feeble old man.

“Do you recognize me?” I asked him. “We are old acquaintances.”

“Maybe,” replied he sullenly; “this is a high road, and many travelers have stopped here.”

“Is your Dunya well?” I continued.

The old man frowned. “God knows,” he replied.

“Probably she is married?” said I.

The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and went on reading my passport in a low tone. I ceased questioning him and ordered some tea. Curiosity began to torment me, and I hoped that the punch would loosen the tongue of my old acquaintance.

I was not mistaken; the old man did not refuse the proffered glass. I observed that the rum dispelled his sullenness. At the second glass he began to talk; he remembered me, or appeared to do so, and I heard from him a story, which at the time, deeply interested and affected me.

“So you knew my Dunya?” he began. “But who did not know her? Ah, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! Everybody who passed this way praised her; nobody had a word to say against her. The ladies used to give her presents—now a handkerchief, now a pair of earrings. The gentlemen used to stop on purpose, as if to dine or to take supper, but in reality only to take a longer look at her. However angry a gentleman might be, in her presence he grew calm and spoke graciously to me. Would you believe it, sir: couriers and government messengers used to talk to her for half an hour at a stretch. It was she held the home together; she put everything in order, got everything ready, and looked after everything. And I, like an old fool, could not look at her enough, could not idolize her enough. Did I not love my Dunya? Did I not indulge my child? Was not her life a happy one? But no, there is no escaping misfortune; there is no evading what has been decreed.”

Then he began to tell me the story of his trouble in detail. Three years earlier, one winter evening, when the postmaster was ruling a new register, and his daughter behind the partition was sewing a dress, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian cap and military cloak, and enveloped in a shawl, entered the room and demanded horses. The horses were all out. On being told this, the traveler raised his voice and whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and graciously inquired of the traveler whether he would not like something to eat and drink.

The appearance of Dunya produced the usual effect. The traveler’s anger subsided; he consented to wait for horses, and ordered supper. Having taken off his wet shaggy cap, and divested himself of his shawl and cloak, the traveler was seen to be a tall, young Hussar with a small black mustache. He settled down, and began to converse gaily with the postmaster and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile the horses returned, and the postmaster ordered them, without being fed, to be harnessed immediately to the traveler’s kibitka. But on returning to the room, he found the young man lying almost unconscious on the bench; he had been taken ill, his head ached, it was impossible for him to continue on his journey. What was to be done? The postmaster gave up his own bed to him, and it was decided that if the sick man did not get better, they would send next day to S—— for the doctor.

The next day the Hussar was worse. His servant rode to town for a doctor. Dunya bound round his head a handkerchief soaked in vinegar, and sat with her needlework beside his bed. In the presence of the postmaster, the sick man groaned and scarcely uttered a word; but he drank two cups of coffee, and, groaning, ordered dinner. Dunya did not quit his side. He constantly asked for something to drink, and Dunya gave him a jug of lemonade prepared by herself. The sick man moistened his lips, and each time, on returning the jug, he feebly pressed Dunya’s hand in token of gratitude.

About dinner time the doctor arrived. He felt the sick man’s pulse, spoke to him in German, and declared in Russian that he only needed rest, and that in about a couple of days he would be able to set out on his journey. The Hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for his visit, and invited him to dinner; the doctor consented. They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine, and separated very well satisfied with each other.

Another day passed, and the Hussar felt quite himself again. He was extraordinarily gay, joked unceasingly, now with Dunya, now with the postmaster, whistled tunes, chatted with the travelers, copied their passports into the register, and the worthy postmaster took such a fancy to him that when the third day arrived, it was with regret that he parted with his amiable guest.

The day was Sunday; Dunya was preparing to go to Mass.

The Hussar’s kibitka stood ready. He took leave of the postmaster, after having generously recompensed him for his board and lodging, bade farewell to Dunya, and offered to drive her as far as the church, which was situated at the edge of the village. Dunya hesitated.

“What are you afraid of?” asked her father. “His Excellency is not a wolf: he won’t eat you. Drive with him as far as the church.”

Dunya seated herself in the kibitka by the side of the Hussar, the servant sprang upon the box, the driver whistled, and the horses started off at a gallop.

The poor postmaster could not understand how he could have allowed his Dunya to drive off with the Hussar, how he could have been so blind, and what had become of his senses at that moment. A half-hour had not elapsed, before his heart began to ache, and uneasiness took possession of him to such a degree that he could contain himself no longer, and started off for Mass himself. On reaching the church, he saw that the people were already beginning to disperse, but Dunya was neither in the churchyard nor on the porch. He hastened into the church: the priest was leaving the chancel, the sexton was blowing out the candles, two old women were still praying in a corner, but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father was scarcely able to summon up sufficient resolution to ask the sexton if she had been to Mass. The sexton replied that she had not. The postmaster returned home neither alive nor dead. One hope alone remained to him: Dunya, in the thoughtlessness of youth, might have taken it into her head to go on as far as the next station, where her godmother lived. In agonizing agitation he awaited the return of the troika in which he had let her set out. There was no sign of it. At last, in the evening, the driver arrived alone and intoxicated, with the terrible news: “Dunya went on with the Hussar from the next station.”

The old man could not bear his misfortune: he immediately took to that very same bed where, the evening before, the young deceiver had lain. Taking all the circumstances into account, the postmaster now came to the conclusion that the illness had been a mere pretense. The poor man fell ill with a violent fever; he was removed to S——, and in his place another person was appointed for the time being. The same doctor, who had attended the Hussar, attended him also. He assured the postmaster that the young man had been perfectly well, and that at the time of his visit he had suspected him of some evil intention, but that he had kept silent through fear of his whip. Whether the German spoke the truth or only wished to boast of his perspicacity, his communication afforded no consolation to the poor invalid. Scarcely had the latter recovered from his illness, when he obtained from the postmaster of S—— two months’ leave of absence, and without saying a word to anybody of his intention, he set out on foot in search of his daughter.

From the traveling passport he knew that Captain Minsky was journeying from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver with whom he had gone off said that Dunya had wept the whole of the way, although she seemed to go of her own free will.

“Perhaps,” thought the postmaster, “I shall bring my lost lamb home again.”

With this thought he reached St. Petersburg, stopped in the neighborhood of the Izmailovsky barracks, at the house of a retired corporal, an old comrade of his, and began his search. He soon discovered that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg, and was living at Demoute’s Inn. The postmaster resolved to call upon him.

Early in the morning he went to Minsky’s antechamber, and requested that His Excellency might be informed that an old soldier wished to see him. The orderly, who was just then polishing a boot on a boot-tree, informed him that his master was still asleep, and that he never received anybody before eleven o’clock. The postmaster retired and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in his dressing gown and red skullcap.

“Well, brother, what do you want?” he asked.

The old man’s heart was wrung, tears started to his eyes, and he was only able to say in a trembling voice: “Your Excellency!… Do me the great favor!…”

Minsky glanced quickly at him, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into his study and locked the door.

“Your Excellency!” continued the old man. “What has fallen from the load is lost; give me back at least my poor Dunya. You have had your pleasure with her; do not ruin her for nothing.”

“What is done cannot be undone,” said the young man, in the utmost confusion. “I am guilty before you, and am ready to ask your pardon, but do not think that I could forsake Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves me; she has become unaccustomed to her former way of living. Neither you nor she will forget what has happened.”

Then, pushing something into the old man’s cuff, he opened the door, and the postmaster, without remembering how, found himself in the street again.

For a long time he stood motionless; at last he observed in the cuff of his sleeve a roll of papers; he drew them out and unrolled several fifty-ruble notes. Tears again filled his eyes, tears of indignation! He crushed the notes into a ball, flung them upon the ground, stamped upon them with the heel of his boot, and then walked away…. After having gone a few steps, he stopped, reflected, and returned … but the notes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, noticing him, ran toward a droshky, jumped in hurriedly, and cried to the driver: “Go on!”

The postmaster did not pursue him. He resolved to return home to his station, but before doing so he wished to see his poor Dunya once more. For that purpose, he returned to Minsky’s lodgings a couple of days later, but when he came the orderly

told him roughly that his master received nobody, pushed him out of the antechamber and slammed the door in his face. The postmaster stood waiting for a long time, then he walked away.

That same day, in the evening, he was walking along Liteinaia Street, having been to a service at the Church of Our Lady of All the Sorrowing. Suddenly a smart droshky flew past him, and the postmaster recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, close to the entrance, and the Hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the postmaster. He returned, and, approached the coachman.

“Whose horse is this, my friend?” asked he. “Doesn’t it belong to Minsky?”

“Exactly so,” replied the coachman. “What do you want?”

“Well, your master ordered me to carry a letter to his Dunya, and I have forgotten where his Dunya lives.”

“She lives here, on the second floor. But you are late with your letter, my friend; he is with her himself just now.”

“That doesn’t matter,” replied the postmaster, with an indescribable emotion. “Thanks for your information. I shall do as I was told.” And with these words he ascended the staircase.

The door was locked; he rang. There was a painful delay of several seconds. The key rattled, and the door was opened.

“Does Avdotya Samsonovna live here?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied a young maidservant. “What do you want with her?”

The postmaster, without replying, walked into the room.

“You mustn’t go in, you mustn’t go in!” the servant cried out after him. “Avdotya Samsonovna has visitors.”

But the postmaster, without heeding her, walked straight on. The first two rooms were dark; in the third there was a light. He approached the open door and paused. In the room, which was beautifully furnished, Minsky sat, in deep thought. Dunya, attired in the most elegant fashion, was sitting upon the arm of his chair, like a lady rider upon her English saddle. She was gazing tenderly at Minsky, and winding his black curls round her dazzling fingers. Poor postmaster! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he admired her against his will.

“Who is there?” she asked, without raising her head.

He remained silent. Receiving no reply, Dunya raised her head … and with a cry she fell upon the carpet. The alarmed Minsky hastened to pick her up, but suddenly catching sight of the old postmaster in the doorway, he left Dunya and approached him, trembling with rage.

“What do you want?” he said to him, clenching his teeth. “Why do you steal after me everywhere, like a thief? Or do you want to murder me? Be off!” And with a powerful hand he seized the old man by the collar and pushed him out onto the stairs.

The old man returned to his lodgings. His friend advised him to lodge a complaint, but the postmaster reflected, waved his hand, and resolved to abstain from taking any further steps in the matter. Two days afterward he left St. Petersburg and returned to his station to resume his duties.

“This is the third year,” he concluded, “that I have been living without Dunya, and I have not heard a word about her. Whether she is alive or not—God only knows. So many things happen. She is not the first, nor yet the last, that a traveling scoundrel has seduced, kept for a little while, and then abandoned. There are many such young fools in St. Petersburg, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow sweeping the streets along with the riff-raff of the dram shops. Sometimes, when I think that Dunya also may come to such an end, then, in spite of myself, I sin and wish her in her grave….”

Such was the story of my friend, the old postmaster, a story more than once interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with the skirt of his coat, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriyev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly induced by the punch, of which he had drunk five glasses during the course of his narrative, but for all that, they moved me deeply. After taking leave of him, it was a long time before I could forget the old postmaster, and for a long time I thought of poor Dunya….

Passing through the little town of X. a short time ago, I remembered my friend. I heard that the station, over which he ruled, had been done away with. To my question: “Is the old postmaster still alive?” nobody could give me a satisfactory reply. I resolved to pay a visit to the familiar place, and having hired horses, I set out for the village of N——.

It was in the autumn. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew across the reaped fields, carrying along with it the red and yellow leaves from the trees that it encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset, and stopped at the little post-house. In the entry (where Dunya had once kissed me) a stout woman came out to meet me, and in answer to my questions replied that the old postmaster had been dead for about a year, that his house was occupied by a brewer, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I began to regret my useless journey, and the seven rubles that I had spent in vain.

“Of what did he die?” I asked the brewer’s wife.

“Of drink, sir,” she replied.

“And where is he buried?”

“On the outskirts of the village, near his late wife.”

“Could somebody take me to his grave?”

“To be sure! Hi, Vanka, you have played with that cat long enough. Take this gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the postmaster’s grave.”

At these words a ragged lad, with red hair, and blind in one eye, ran up to me and immediately began to lead the way toward the burial ground.

“Did you know the dead man?” I asked him on the road.

“Yes, indeed! He taught me how to cut whistles. When he came out of the dram shop (God rest his soul!) we used to run after him and call out: ‘Grandfather! grandfather! some nuts!’ and he used to throw nuts to us. He always used to play with us.”

“And do the travelers remember him?”

“There are very few travelers now; the assessor passes this way sometimes, but he doesn’t trouble himself about dead people. Last summer a lady passed through here, and she asked after the old postmaster, and went to his grave.”

“What sort of a lady?” I asked with curiosity.

“A very beautiful lady,” replied the lad. “She was in a carriage with six horses, and had along with her three little children, a nurse, and a little black lapdog; and when they told her that the old postmaster was dead, she began to cry, and said to the children: ‘Sit still, I will go to the cemetery.’ I offered to show her the way. But the lady said: ‘I know the way.’ And she gave me a five-kopeck piece…. such a kind lady!”

We reached the cemetery, a bare place, with no fence around it, dotted with wooden crosses, which were not shaded by a single tree. Never in my life had I seen such a dismal cemetery.

“This is the old postmaster’s grave,” said the lad to me, leaping upon a heap of sand, in which was planted a black cross with a bronze ikon.

“And did the lady come here?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Vanka; “I watched her from a distance. She cast herself down here, and remained lying down for a long time. Then she went back to the village, sent for the priest, gave him some money and drove off, after giving me a five-kopeck piece … such a kind lady!”

And I, too, gave the lad a five-kopeck piece, and I no longer regretted the journey or the seven rubles that I had spent on it.


## Mistress into Maid


You’re pretty, Dushenka, no matter what you wear.

BOGDANOVICH

In one of our remote provinces was situated the estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. In his youth he had served in the Guards, but having quitted the service at the beginning of the year 1797, he repaired to his village, and since that time he had not stirred from it. He had been married to a penniless gentlewoman, who had died in childbed at a time when he was absent from home on a visit to one of the outlying fields of his estate. He soon found consolation in attending to his affairs. He built a house on a plan of his own, established a textile mill, tripled his revenues, and began to consider himself the most intelligent man in the whole country roundabout, and in this he was not contradicted by his neighbors, who came to visit him with their families and their dogs. On weekdays he wore a velveteen jacket, but on Sundays and holidays he appeared in a surtout of cloth that had been manufactured on his own premises. He himself kept an account of all his expenses, and he never read anything except the “Senate Bulletins.”

In general he was liked, although he was considered proud. There was only one person who was not on good terms with him, and that was Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his nearest neighbor. This latter was a genuine Russian gentleman. After having squandered the greater part of his fortune in Moscow, and having become a widower about the same time, he retired to his last remaining estate, where he continued to indulge in habits of extravagance, but of a new kind. He laid out an English garden, on which he expended nearly the whole of his remaining revenue. His grooms were dressed like English jockeys, his daughter had an English governess, and his fields were cultivated after the English method.

But Russian corn fares ill when foreign ways are followed, and in spite of a considerable reduction in his expenses, the revenues of Grigory Ivanovich did not increase. He found means, even in the country, of contracting new debts. Nevertheless he was not considered a fool, for he was the first landowner in his province who conceived the idea of mortgaging his estate in the Tutorial Council—a proceeding which at that time was considered exceedingly complicated and venturesome. Of all those who censured him, Berestov showed himself the most severe. Hatred of all innovation was a distinguishing trait in his character. He could not bring himself to speak calmly of his neighbor’s Anglomania, and he constantly found occasion to criticize him. If he showed his possessions to a guest, in reply to the praises bestowed upon him for his economical arrangements, he would say with a sly smile: “Yes, sir, it is not the same with me as with my neighbor Grigory Ivanovich. What need have we to ruin ourselves in the English style, when we have enough to do to keep the wolf from the door in the Russian style?”

These and similar sarcastic remarks, thanks to the zeal of obliging neighbors, did not fail to reach the ears of Grigory Ivanovich greatly embellished. The Anglomaniac bore criticism as impatiently as our journalists. He became furious, and called his traducer a boor and a country bumpkin.

Such were the relations between the two proprietors, when Berestov’s son came home. He had been educated at the University of ——, and intended to enter the military service, but to this his father would not give his consent. For the civil service the young man had not the slightest inclination, and as neither

felt inclined to yield to the other, the young Alexey lived in the meantime like a gentleman, and at any rate allowed his mustache to grow. [8]

Alexey was indeed a fine young fellow, and it would really have been a pity were his slender frame never to be set off to advantage by a military uniform, and were he to be compelled to spend his youth in bending over the papers of the chancery office, instead of cutting a figure on horseback. The neighbors, observing how at the hunt he always dashed ahead across the fields, agreed that he would never make a proper clerk. The young ladies cast glances at him, and sometimes could not leave off looking at him, but Alexey troubled himself very little about them, and they attributed this insensibility to some secret love affair. Indeed, there passed from hand to hand a copy of the address on one of his letters: “To Akulina Petrovna Kurochkina in Moscow, opposite the Alexeyevsky Monastery, in the house of the coppersmith Savelyev, with the request that she hand this letter to A. N. R.”

Those of my readers who have never lived in the country, cannot imagine how charming these provincial young ladies are! Brought up in the pure air, under the shadow of their own apple trees, they derive their knowledge of the world and of life from books. Solitude, freedom, and reading develop very early within them sentiments and passions unknown to our town-bred beauties. For the young ladies of the country the sound of harness bells is an event; a journey to the nearest town marks an epoch in their lives, and the visit of a guest leaves behind a long and sometimes an everlasting memory. Of course everybody is at liberty to laugh at some of their peculiarities, but the jokes of a superficial observer cannot nullify their essential merits, the chief of which is that quality of character, that individualité,

without which, in Jean Paul’s opinion, there can be no human greatness. In the capitals, women receive perhaps a better education, but intercourse with the world soon smooths down the character and makes their souls as uniform as their headdresses. This is said neither by way of judgment nor of censure, but “nota nostra manet,” as one of the old commentators writes.

It can easily be imagined what impression Alexey produced in the circle of our young ladies. He was the first who appeared before them gloomy and disenchanted, the first who spoke to them of lost happiness and of his blighted youth; in addition to which he wore a black ring engraved with a death’s head. All this was something quite new in that province. The young ladies went mad over him.

But not one of them felt so much interest in him as the daughter of our Anglomaniac, Liza, or Betsy, as Grigory Ivanovich usually called her. As their parents did not visit each other, she had not yet seen Alexey, even when he had become the sole topic of conversation among all the young ladies of the neighborhood. She was seventeen years old. Dark eyes illuminated her swarthy and exceedingly pleasant countenance. She was an only and consequently a spoiled child. Her liveliness and continual pranks delighted her father and filled with despair the heart of Miss Jackson, her governess, an affected old maid of forty, who powdered her face and darkened her eyebrows, read through Pamela twice a year, for which she received two thousand rubles, and was dying of boredom in this barbarous Russia.

Liza was waited upon by Nastya, who, although somewhat older, was quite as giddy as her mistress. Liza was very fond of her, confided to her all her secrets, and planned pranks together with her; in a word, Nastya was a far more important person in the village of Priluchino than the trusted confidante in a French tragedy.

“Will you allow me to go out today on a visit?” said Nastya one morning, as she was dressing her mistress.

“Certainly; but where are you going to?”

“To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs’. The wife of their cook is going to celebrate her name-day today, and she came over yesterday to invite us to dinner.”

“Well!” said Liza. “The masters are at odds with each other, but the servants entertain each other.”

“What have the masters to do with us?” replied Nastya. “Besides, I belong to you, and not to your papa. You have not had any quarrel with young Berestov; let the old ones quarrel and fight, if it gives them any pleasure.”

“Try and see Alexey Berestov, Nastya, and then tell me what he looks like and what sort of a person he is.”

Nastya promised to do so, and all day long Liza waited with impatience for her return. In the evening Nastya made her appearance.

“Well, Lizaveta Grigoryevna,” said she, on entering the room, “I have seen young Berestov, and I had ample opportunity for taking a good look at him, for we have been together all day.”

“How did that happen? Tell me about it, tell me everything just as it happened.”

“Very well. We set out, I, Anisya Yegorovna, Nenila, Dunka …”

“Yes, yes, I know. And then?”

“With your leave, I will tell you everything in detail. We arrived just in time for dinner. The room was full of people. The folk from Kolbino were there, from Zakharyevo, the bailiff’s wife and her daughters, the people from Khlupino….”

“Well, and Berestov?”

“Wait a moment. We sat down to table; the bailiff’s wife had the place of honor. I sat next to her … the daughters sulked, but I didn’t care about them….”

“Good heavens, Nastya, how tiresome you are with your never-ending details!”

“How impatient you are! Well, we rose from the table … we had been sitting down for three hours, and the dinner was excellent: pastry, blancmange, blue, red and striped…. Well, we left the table and went into the garden to have a game of tag, and it was then that the young master made his appearance.”

“Well, and is it true that he is so very handsome?”

“Exceedingly handsome: tall, well built, and with red cheeks …”

“Really? And I was under the impression that he was pale. Well, and how did he seem to you? Sad, thoughtful?”

“Nothing of the kind! I have never in my life seen such a madcap. He joined in our game.”

“Joined in your game of tag? Impossible!”

“Not at all impossible. And what else do you think he did? He’d catch you and kiss you!”

“With your permission, Nastya, you are fibbing.”

“With your permission, I am not fibbing. I had the greatest trouble in the world to get away from him. He spent the whole day with us.”

“But they say that he is in love, and hasn’t eyes for anybody.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I know that he looked at me a good deal, and so he did at Tanya, the bailiff’s daughter, and at Pasha from Kolbino, too. But it cannot be said that he misbehaved—the scamp!”

“That is extraordinary! And what do they say about him in the house?”

“They say that he is an excellent master—so kind, so cheerful. They have only one fault to find with him: he is too fond of running after the girls. But for my part, I don’t think that is a very great fault: he will settle down with age.”

“How I should like to see him!” said Liza, with a sigh.

“What is so difficult about it? Tugilovo is not far from us—only about three versts. Go and take a walk in that direction, or a ride on horseback, and you will assuredly meet him. He goes out early every morning with his gun.”

“No, no, that would not do. He might think that I was running after him. Besides, our fathers are not on good terms, so that I cannot make his acquaintance…. Ah! Nastya, do you know what I’ll do? I will dress myself up as a peasant girl!”

“Exactly! Put on a coarse blouse and a sarafan, and then go boldly to Tugilovo; I will answer for it that Berestov will not pass you by.”

“And I know how to speak like the peasants about here. Ah, Nastya! my dear Nastya! what an excellent idea!”

And Liza went to bed, firmly resolved on putting her plan into execution.

The next morning she began to prepare to carry out her plan. She sent to the market and bought some coarse linen, some blue nankeen and some copper buttons, and with the help of Nastya she cut out for herself a blouse and sarafan. She then set all the female servants to work to do the necessary sewing, so that by evening everything was ready. Liza tried on the new costume, and as she stood before the mirror, she confessed to herself that she had never looked so charming. Then she rehearsed her part. As she walked she made a low bow, and then nodded her head several times, after the manner of a clay cat, spoke in the peasants’ dialect, smiled behind her sleeve, and earned Nastya’s complete approval. One thing only proved irksome to her: she tried to walk barefooted across the courtyard, but the turf pricked her tender feet, and she found the sand and gravel unbearable. Nastya immediately came to her assistance. She took the measurement of Liza’s foot, ran to the fields to find Trofim the shepherd, and ordered him to make a pair of bast shoes to fit.

The next morning, at crack o’ dawn, Liza was already awake. Everybody in the house was still asleep. Nastya, at the gate, was waiting for the shepherd. The sound of a horn was heard, and the village flock filed past the manor-house. Trofim, as he passed Nastya, gave her a small pair of colored bast shoes, and received from her a half-ruble in exchange. Liza quietly dressed herself in the peasant’s costume, whispered her instructions to Nastya with reference to Miss Jackson, descended the back staircase and made her way through the kitchen garden into the field beyond.

The eastern sky was all aglow, and the golden rows of clouds seemed to be awaiting the sun, as courtiers await their monarch. The clear sky, the freshness of the morning, the dew, the light breeze, and the singing of the birds filled the heart of Liza with childish joy. The fear of meeting some acquaintance seemed to give her wings, for she flew rather than walked. But as she approached the grove which formed the boundary of her father’s estate, she slackened her pace. Here she resolved to wait for Alexey. Her heart beat violently, she knew not why; but is not the fear which accompanies our youthful escapades their greatest charm? Liza advanced into the depth of the grove. The muffled, undulating murmur of the branches welcomed the young girl. Her gaiety vanished. Little by little she abandoned herself to sweet reveries. She thought—but who can say exactly what a young lady of seventeen thinks of, alone in a grove, at six o’clock of a spring morning? And so she walked musingly along the pathway, which was shaded on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a magnificent hunting dog barked at her. Liza became frightened and cried out. But at the same moment a voice called out: “Tout beau, Sbogar, ici!” … and a young hunter emerged from behind a clump of bushes.

“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” said he to Liza: “my dog does not bite.”

Liza had already recovered from her fright, and she immediately took advantage of her opportunity.

“But, sir,” said she, assuming a half-frightened, half-bashful expression, “I am so afraid; he looks so fierce—he might fly at me again.”

Alexey—for the reader has already recognized him—gazed fixedly at the young peasant girl.

“I will accompany you if you are afraid,” he said to her. “Will you allow me to walk along with you?”

“Who is to hinder you?” replied Liza. “A free man may do as he likes, and the road is everybody’s.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From Priluchino; I am the daughter of Vassily the blacksmith, and I am going to gather mushrooms.” (Liza carried a basket on her arm.) “And you, sir? From Tugilovo, I have no doubt.”

“Exactly so,” replied Alexey. “I am the young master’s valet.”

Alexey wanted to put himself on an equal footing with her, but Liza looked at him and laughed.

“That is a fib,” said she. “I am not such a fool as you may think. I see very well that you are the young master himself.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I think so for a great many reasons.”

“But—”

“As if it were not possible to tell the master from the servant! You are not dressed like a servant, you do not speak like one, and you do not call your dog the way we do.”

Alexey liked Liza more and more. As he was not accustomed to standing upon ceremony with pretty peasant girls, he wanted to embrace her; but Liza drew back from him, and suddenly assumed such a cold and severe look, that Alexey, although much amused, did not venture to renew the attempt.

“If you wish that we should remain good friends,” said she with dignity, “be good enough not to forget yourself.”

“Who taught you to be so clever?” asked Alexey, bursting into a laugh. “Can it be my friend Nastenka, the maid of your young mistress? See how enlightenment becomes diffused!”

Liza felt that she had stepped out of her role, and she immediately recovered herself.

“Do you think,” said she, “that I have never been to the manor-house? Don’t alarm yourself; I have seen and heard a great many things…. But,” continued she, “if I talk to you, I shall not gather my mushrooms. Go your way, sir, and I will go mine. Pray excuse me.”

And she was about to move off, but Alexey seized hold of her hand.

“What is your name, my dear?”

“Akulina,” replied Liza, endeavoring to disengage her fingers from his grasp. “But let me go, sir; it is time for me to return home.”

“Well, my friend Akulina, I will certainly pay a visit to your father, Vassily the blacksmith.”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Liza quickly. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t think of doing such a thing! If it were known at home that I had been talking to a gentleman alone in the grove, I should fare very badly—my father, Vassily the blacksmith, would beat me to death.”

“But I really must see you again.”

“Well, then, I will come here again some time to gather mushrooms.”

“When?”

“Well, tomorrow, if you wish it.”

“My dear Akulina, I would kiss you, but I dare not…. Tomorrow, then, at the same time, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And you will not deceive me?”

“I will not deceive you.”

“Swear it.”

“Well, then, I swear by Holy Friday that I will come.”

The young people separated. Liza emerged from the wood, crossed the field, stole into the garden and hastened to the place where Nastya awaited her. There she changed her costume, replying absently to the questions of her impatient confidante, and then she repaired to the parlor. The cloth was laid, the breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already powdered and laced up, so that she looked like a wineglass, was cutting thin slices of bread and butter.

Her father praised her for her early walk.

“There is nothing so healthy,” said he, “as getting up at daybreak.”

Then he cited several instances of human longevity, which he had taken from the English journals, and observed that all persons who had lived to be upwards of a hundred, abstained from brandy and rose at daybreak, winter and summer.

Liza did not listen to him. In her thoughts she was going over all the circumstances of the morning’s meeting, Akulina’s whole conversation with the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain did she try to persuade herself that their talk had not gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and that the prank would be followed by no serious consequences—her conscience spoke louder than her reason. The promise given for the following day troubled her more than anything else, and she almost felt resolved not to keep her solemn oath. But then, might not Alexey, after waiting for her in vain, make his way to the village and search out the daughter of Vassily the blacksmith, the veritable Akulina—a fat, pock-marked peasant girl—and so discover the prank she had played upon him? This thought horrified Liza, and she resolved to repair to the little wood the next morning again as Akulina.

For his part, Alexey was in an ecstasy of delight. All day long he thought of his new acquaintance; and in his dreams at night the form of the dark-skinned beauty appeared before him. The morning had scarcely begun to dawn, when he was already dressed. Without giving himself time to load his gun, he set out for the fields with his faithful Sbogar, and hastened to the place of the promised rendezvous. A half hour of intolerable waiting passed by; at last he caught a glimpse of a blue sarafan between the bushes, and he rushed forward to meet his charming Akulina. She smiled at his ecstasy of gratitude, but Alexey immediately observed upon her face traces of sadness and uneasiness. He wished to know the cause. Liza confessed to him that her act seemed to her very frivolous, that she repented of it, that this time she did not wish to break her promised word, but that this meeting would be the last, and she therefore entreated him to break off an acquaintanceship which could not lead to any good.

All this, of course, was expressed in the language of a peasant; but such thoughts and sentiments, so unusual in a simple girl of the lower class, struck Alexey with astonishment. He employed all his eloquence to divert Akulina from her purpose; he assured her that his intentions were honorable, promised her that he would never give her cause to repent, that he would obey her in everything, and earnestly entreated her not to deprive him of the joy of seeing her alone, if only once a day, or even only twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion, and at that moment he was really in love. Liza listened to him in silence.

“Give me your word,” said she at last, “that you will never come to the village in search of me, and that you will never seek a meeting with me except those that I shall appoint myself.”

Alexey swore by Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile.

“I do not want you to swear,” said she; “your mere word is sufficient.”

After that they began to converse together in a friendly manner, strolling about the wood, until Liza said to him: “Time is up.”

They separated, and when Alexey was left alone, he could not understand how, in two meetings, a simple peasant girl had succeeded in acquiring such real power over him. His relations with Akulina had for him all the charm of novelty, and although the injunctions of the strange peasant girl appeared to him to be very severe, the thought of breaking his word never once entered his mind. The fact was that Alexey, in spite of his fateful ring, his mysterious correspondence, and his gloomy disenchantment, was a good and impulsive young fellow, with a pure heart capable of innocent pleasure.

Were I to listen to my own wishes only, I would here enter into a minute description of the interviews of the young people, of their growing inclination toward each other, their confidences, occupations and conversations; but I know that the greater part of my readers would not share my interest. Such details are usually considered tedious and uninteresting, and therefore I will omit them, merely observing, that before two months had elapsed, Alexey was already hopelessly in love, and Liza equally so, though less demonstrative in revealing the fact. Both were happy in the present and troubled themselves little about the future.

The thought of indissoluble ties frequently passed through their minds, but never had they spoken to each other about the matter. The reason was plain: Alexey, however much attached he might be to his lovely Akulina, could not forget the distance that separated him from the poor peasant girl; while Liza, knowing, the hatred that existed between their parents, did not dare to hope for a mutual reconciliation. Moreover, her amour propre was stimulated in secret by the obscure and romantic hope of seeing at last the proprietor of Tugilovo at the feet of the daughter of the Priluchino blacksmith. All at once an important event occurred which threatened to alter their mutual relations.

One bright cold morning—such a morning as is very common during our Russian autumn—Ivan Petrovich Berestov went out for a ride on horseback, taking with him three pairs of hunting dogs, a groom and several peasant boys with clappers. At the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the beautiful weather, ordered his bob-tailed mare to be saddled, and started out to visit his Anglicized domains. On approaching the wood, he perceived his neighbor, sitting proudly on his horse, in his cloak lined with foxskin, waiting for a hare which the boys, with loud cries and the rattling of their clappers, had started out of a thicket. If Grigory Ivanovich had foreseen this meeting, he would certainly have proceeded in another direction, but he came upon Berestov so unexpectedly, that he suddenly found himself no farther than the distance of a pistol shot away from him. There was no help for it: Muromsky, like a civilized European, rode forward toward his adversary and politely saluted him. Berestov returned the salute with the zeal characteristic of a chained bear, who salutes the public in obedience to the order of his master.

At that moment the hare darted out of the wood and started off across the field. Berestov and the groom raised a loud shout, let the dogs loose, and then galloped off in pursuit. Muromsky’s horse, not being accustomed to hunting, took fright and bolted. Muromsky, who prided himself on being a good horseman, gave it full rein, and inwardly rejoiced at the incident which delivered him from a disagreeable companion. But the horse, reaching a ravine which it had not previously noticed, suddenly sprang to one side, and Muromsky was thrown from the saddle. Striking the frozen ground with considerable force, he lay there cursing his bob-tailed mare, which, as if recovering itself, had suddenly come to a standstill as soon as it felt that it was without a rider.

Ivan Petrovich hastened toward him and inquired if he had injured himself. In the meantime the groom had secured the guilty horse, which he now led forward by the bridle. He helped Muromsky into the saddle, and Berestov invited him to his house. Muromsky could not refuse the invitation, for he felt indebted to him; and so Berestov returned home, covered with glory for having hunted down a hare and for bringing with him his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner of war.

The two neighbors took breakfast together and conversed with each other in a very friendly manner. Muromsky requested Berestov to lend him a droshky, for he was obliged to confess that, owing to his bruises, he was not in a condition to return home on horseback. Berestov conducted him to the steps, and Muromsky did not take leave of him until he had obtained a promise from him that he would come the next day in company with Alexey Ivanovich, and dine in a friendly way at Priluchino. In this way was a deeply rooted enmity of long standing apparently brought to an end by the skittishness of a bob-tailed mare.

Liza ran forward to meet Grigory Ivanovich.

“What does this mean, Papa?” said she, with astonishment. “Why are you limping? Where is your horse? Whose droshky is this?”

“You will never guess, my dear,” replied Grigory Ivanovich; and then he related to her everything that had happened.

Liza could not believe her ears. Without giving her time to collect herself, Grigory Ivanovich then went on to inform her that the two Berestovs—father and son—would dine with them on the following day.

“What do you say?” she exclaimed, turning pale. “The Berestovs, father and son, will dine with us tomorrow! No, Papa, you can do as you please, but I shall not show myself.”

“What! Have you taken leave of your senses?” replied her father. “Since when have you been so bashful? Or do you cherish a hereditary hatred toward him like a heroine of romance? Enough, do not be a fool.”

“No, Papa, not for anything in the world, not for any treasure would I appear before the Berestovs.”

Grigory Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders, and did not dispute with her any further, for he knew that by contradiction he would obtain nothing from her, and went to rest after his eventful ride.

Lizaveta Grigoryevna repaired to her room and summoned Nastya. They both conversed together for a long time about the impending visit. What would Alexey think if, in the well-bred young lady, he recognized his Akulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct, of her manners, of her good sense? On the other hand, Liza wished very much to see what impression would be produced upon him by a meeting so unexpected…. Suddenly an idea flashed through her mind. She communicated it to Nastya; both felt delighted with it, and they resolved to carry it into effect.

The next day at breakfast, Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter if she still intended to hide from the Berestovs.

“Papa,” replied Liza, “I will receive them if you wish it, but on one condition, and that is, that however I may appear before them, or whatever I may do, you will not be angry with me, or show the least sign of astonishment or displeasure.”

“Some new prank!” said Grigory Ivanovich, laughing. “Very well, very well, I agree; do what you like, my dark-eyed romp.”

With these words he kissed her on the forehead, and Liza ran off to put her plan into execution.

At two o’clock precisely, a carriage of domestic make, drawn by six horses, entered the courtyard and rounded the lawn. The elder Berestov mounted the steps with the assistance of two lackeys in the Muromsky livery. His son came after him on horseback, and together they entered the dining room, where the table was already laid. Muromsky received his neighbors in the most gracious manner, proposed that they inspect his garden and menagerie before dinner, and conducted them along paths carefully kept and graveled. The elder Berestov inwardly deplored the time and labor wasted in such useless fancies, but he held his tongue out of politeness. His son shared neither the disapprobation of the economical landowner, nor the enthusiasm of the vain-glorious Anglomaniac, but waited with impatience for the appearance of his host’s daughter, of whom he had heard a great deal; and although his heart, as we know, was already engaged, youthful beauty always had a claim upon his imagination.

Returning to the parlor, they all three sat down; and while the old men recalled their young days, and related anecdotes of their respective careers in the service, Alexey reflected as to what role he should play in the presence of Liza. He decided that an air of cold indifference would be the most becoming under the circumstances, and he prepared to act accordingly. The door opened; he turned his head with such indifference, with such haughty carelessness, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette would inevitably have quaked. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, it was old Miss Jackson, who, painted and tightly laced, entered the room with downcast eyes and with a curtsey, so that Alexey’s remarkable military move was wasted. He had not succeeded in recovering from his confusion, when the door opened again, and this time it was Liza herself who entered.

All rose; her father was just beginning to introduce his guests, when suddenly he stopped short and bit his lips…. Liza, his dark-complexioned Liza, was painted white up to the ears, and was more heavily made up than even Miss Jackson herself; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, covered her head like the peruke of Louis the Fourteenth; her sleeves à l’imbécile stood out like the hooped skirts of Madame de Pompadour; her figure was pinched in like the letter X, and all her mother’s jewels, which had not yet found their way to the pawnbroker’s, shone upon her fingers, her neck and in her ears.

Alexey could not possibly recognize his Akulina in the grotesque and dazzling young lady. His father kissed her hand, and he followed his example, though much against his will; when he touched her little white fingers, it seemed to him that they trembled. In the meantime he succeeded in catching a glimpse of her little foot, intentionally advanced and set off to advantage by the most coquettish shoe imaginable. This reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her toilette. As for the paint and powder, it must be confessed that, in the simplicity of his heart, he had not noticed them at the first glance, and afterwards had no suspicion of them. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise, and endeavored not to show any astonishment; but his daughter’s prank seemed to him so amusing, that he could scarcely contain himself. But the person who felt no inclination to laugh was the prim English governess. She had a shrewd suspicion that the paint and powder had been extracted from her chest of drawers, and a deep flush of anger was distinctly visible beneath the artificial whiteness of her face. She darted angry glances at the young madcap, who, reserving her explanations for another time, pretended that she did not notice them.

They sat down to table. Alexey continued to play his role of assumed indifference and absent-mindedness. Liza put on an air of affectation, spoke in a sing-song through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept constantly looking at her, not understanding her object, but finding it all exceedingly amusing. The English governess fumed with rage and said not a word. Ivan Petrovich alone seemed at home: he ate like two, drank heavily, laughed at his own jokes, and grew more talkative and hilarious every moment.

At last they all rose from the table; the guests took their departure, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free vent to his laughter and to his questions.

“What put the idea into your head of fooling them like that?” he said to Liza. “But do you know what? The paint suits you admirably. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of a lady’s toilette, but if I were in your place, I would very soon begin to paint; not too much, of course, but just a little.”

Liza was enchanted with the success of her stratagem. She embraced her father, promised him that she would consider his advice, and then hastened to conciliate the indignant Miss Jackson, who with great reluctance consented to open the door and listen to her explanations. Liza was ashamed to appear before strangers with her dark complexion; she had not dared to ask … she felt sure that dear, good Miss Jackson would pardon her, etc., etc. Miss Jackson, feeling convinced that Liza had not wished to make her a laughing-stock by imitating her, calmed down, kissed her, and as a token of reconciliation, made her a present of a small pot of English ceruse, which Liza accepted with every appearance of sincere gratitude.

The reader will readily imagine that Liza lost no time in repairing to the rendezvous in the little wood the next morning.

“You were at our master’s yesterday,” she said at once to Alexey. “What do you think of our young mistress?”

Alexey replied that he had not noticed her.

“That’s a pity!” replied Liza.

“Why so?” asked Alexey.

“Because I wanted to ask you if it is true what they say—”

“What do they say?”

“Is it true, as they say, that I am very much like her?”

“What nonsense! She is a perfect freak compared with you.”

“Oh, sir, it is very wrong of you to speak like that. Our young mistress is so fair and so stylish! How could I be compared with her!”

Alexey vowed to her that she was more beautiful than all the fair young ladies in creation, and in order to pacify her completely, he began to describe her mistress in such comical terms that Liza laughed heartily.

“But,” said she with a sigh, “even though our young mistress may be ridiculous, I am but a poor ignorant thing in comparison with her.”

“Oh!” said Alexey. “Is that anything to break your heart about? If you wish it, I will soon teach you to read and write.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Liza, “why shouldn’t I try?”

“Very well, my dear; we will commence at once.”

They sat down. Alexey drew from his pocket a pencil and notebook, and Akulina learned the alphabet with astonishing rapidity. Alexey could not sufficiently admire her intelligence. The following morning she wished to try to write. At first the pencil refused to obey her, but after a few minutes she was able to trace the letters with tolerable accuracy.

“It is really wonderful!” said Alexey. “Our method certainly produces quicker results than the Lancaster system.”

And indeed, at the third lesson Akulina began to spell through Natalya the Boyar’s Daughter, interrupting her reading by observations which really filled Alexey with astonishment, and she filled a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms drawn from the same story.

A week went by, and a correspondence was established between them. Their letter box was the hollow of an old oak tree, and Nastya acted as their messenger. Thither Alexey carried his letters written in a bold round hand, and there he found on plain blue paper the scrawls of his beloved. Akulina perceptibly began to acquire an elegant style of expression, and her mind developed noticeably.

Meanwhile, the recently formed acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky soon became transformed into a sincere friendship, under the following circumstances. Muromsky frequently reflected that, on the death of Ivan Petrovich, all his possessions would pass into the hands of Alexey Ivanovich, in which case the latter would be one of the wealthiest landed proprietors in the province, and there would be nothing to hinder him from marrying Liza. The elder Berestov, on his side, although recognizing in his neighbor a certain extravagance (or, as he termed it, English folly), was perfectly ready to admit that he possessed many excellent qualities, as for example, his rare resourcefulness. Grigory Ivanovich was closely related to Count Pronsky, a man of distinction and of great influence. The Count could be of great service to Alexey, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich) would doubtless rejoice to see his daughter marry so advantageously. By dint of constantly dwelling upon this idea, the two old men came at last to communicate their thoughts to one another. They embraced each other, both promised to do their best to arrange the matter, and they immediately set to work, each on his own side. Muromsky foresaw that he would have some difficulty in persuading his Betsy to become more intimately acquainted with Alexey, whom she had not seen since the memorable dinner. It seemed to him that they had not liked each other much; at least Alexey had not paid any further visits to Priluchino, and Liza had retired to her room every time that Ivan Petrovich had honored them with a visit.

“But,” thought Grigory Ivanovich, “if Alexey came to see us every day, Betsy could not help falling in love with him. That is in the nature of things. Time will settle everything.”

Ivan Petrovich was less uneasy about the success of his designs. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short pause, said: “Well, Alyosha, you have not said anything for a long time about military service. Or has the Hussar uniform lost its charm for you?”

“No, Father,” replied Alexey respectfully; “but I see that you do not like the idea of my entering the Hussars, and it is my duty to obey you.”

“Good,” replied Ivan Petrovich; “I see that you are an obedient son; that is a consolation to me…. On my side, I do not wish to compel you; I do not want to force you to enter … the civil service … at once, but, in the meanwhile, I intend you to get married.”

“To whom, Father?” asked Alexey, in astonishment.

“To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovich. “She is a fine bride, is she not?”

“Father, I have not thought of marriage yet.”

“You have not thought of it, and therefore I have thought of it for you.”

“As you please, but I do not care for Liza Muromsky in the least.”

“You will get to like her afterwards. Love comes with time.”

“I do not feel capable of making her happy.”

“Do not fret about making her happy. What? Is this how you respect your father’s wish? Very well!”

“As you choose. I do not wish to marry, and I will not marry.”

“You will marry, or I will curse you; and as for my estate, as true as there is a God in heaven, I will sell it and squander the money, and not leave you a farthing. I will give you three days to think about the matter; and in the meantime, keep out of my sight.”

Alexey knew that when his father once took an idea into his head, even a nail would not drive it out, as Taras Skotinin [9] says in the comedy. But Alexey took after his father, and was just as headstrong as he was. He went to his room and began to reflect upon the limits of paternal authority. Then his thoughts reverted to Lizaveta Grigoryevna, to his father’s solemn vow to make him a beggar, and last of all to Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic idea of marrying a peasant girl and of living by the labor of his hands came into his head, and the more he thought of such a decisive step, the more reasonable did it seem to him. For some time the interviews in the wood had ceased on account of the rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the neatest handwriting, and in the wildest style, informing her of the misfortune that threatened them, and offering her his hand. He took the letter at once to the post office in the wood, and then went to bed, well satisfied with himself.

The next day Alexey, still firm in his resolution, rode over early in the morning to visit Muromsky, in order to explain matters frankly to him. He hoped to excite his generosity and win him over to his side.

“Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” he asked, stopping his horse in front of the steps of the Priluchino mansion.

“No, sir,” replied the servant; “Grigory Ivanovich rode out early this morning, and has not yet returned.”

“How annoying!” thought Alexey…. “Is Lizaveta Grigoryevna at home, then?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Alexey sprang from his horse, gave the reins to the lackey, and entered without being announced.

“Everything is going to be decided now,” thought he, directing his steps toward the parlor. “I will explain everything to Lizaveta herself.”

He entered … and then stood still as if petrified! Liza … no … Akulina, dear, dark-skinned Akulina, no longer in a sarafan, but in a white morning dress, was sitting in front of the window, reading his letter; she was so preoccupied that she had not heard him enter.

Alexey could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Liza started, raised her head, uttered a cry, and wished to fly from the room. But he held her back.

“Akulina! Akulina!”

Liza endeavored to free herself from his grasp.

“Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur! Mais êtes-vous fou?” she repeated, turning away.

“Akulina! my dear Akulina!” he repeated, kissing her hands.

Miss Jackson, a witness of this scene, knew not what to think of it. At that moment the door opened, and Grigory Ivanovich entered the room.

“Aha!” said Muromsky. “It seems that you have already arranged matters between you.”

The reader will spare me the unnecessary obligation of describing the dénouement.

The End of the Tales of I. P. Belkin

Aleksandr Pushkin, 1831

## Recommendations:


Emma, Northanger Abbey, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park , Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

Gobseck, Father Goriot, The Magic Skin, Cousin Bette by Honoré de Balzac

Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Life Is A Dream by Pedro Calderon De La Barca

Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes

The Divine Comedy, The New Life by Dante Alighieri

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime And Punishment, The Insulted And The Injured, Demons by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers by A. Dumas

Cleopatra, The Emperor by Georg Ebers

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Red Lily, Penguin Island by Anatole France

Dona Perfecta by B. Perez Galdos

Faust Parts I & II , The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Overcoat, The Nose, Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Hunchback of Notre-Dame , Les Misérables , The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by W. Irving

Trois hommes dans un bateau. Sans oublier le chien! by Jerome K. Jerome

The Trial , Metamorphosis, The Castle by Franz Kafka

A Hero of Our Time, The Demon by M. Y. Lermontov

Martin Eden , The Call of the Wild, White Fang by Jack London

Bel Ami by Guy de Maupassant

Moby Dick Or The Whale, Bartleby, The Scrivener by Herman Melville

Amphitryon by Moliere

Thus Spake Zarathustra, The Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche

Henry IV, Six Characters in Search of an Author, The Late Mattia Pascal by Luigi Pirandello

Eugene Onegin , The Queen of Spades, Boris Godunov, The Captain’s Daughter by Alexander Pushkin

The Headless Horseman by Mayne Reid

Treasure Island, The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Robbers, Love And Intrigue, Wilhelm Tell by F. Schiller

The Antiquary, Quentin Durward by Walter Scott

Othello, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth by William Shakespeare

Fathers and Sons , A House of Gentlefolk, A Sportsman’s Sketches by Ivan Turgenev

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Prince And The Pauper by Mark Twain

Dick Sands, the Boy Captain , In Search of the Castaways by Jules Verne

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Amok, Chess Story, 24 Hours in the Life of a Woman by Stefan Zweig

1

Follows an anecdote, which we do not give, deeming it superfluous; we assure the reader, however, that it contains nothing prejudicial to the memory of Ivan Petrovich Belkin.

2

Indeed, in Mr. Belkin’s manuscript, there is an inscription, in the author’s hand, over each tale: “Heard by me from such-and-such a person” (follow rank or title and initials of name and surname). We quote for the curious student: “The Postmaster” was told to him by Titular Counsellor A.G.N.; “The Shot” by Lieutenant I. L. P.; “The Undertaker” by B. V., shop-assistant; “The Snowstorm” and “Mistress into Maid” by Miss K. I. T.

3

Burtzov, an officer of the Hussars, notorious for his drinking powers and escapades (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

4

Denis Davydov, author, 1781–1839 (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

5

A character in a story by Pogorelsky, a contemporary of Pushkin (EDITOR’S NOTE).

6

The officials of Russia were divided into fourteen classes, the fourteenth being the lowest (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

7

Diminutive of Avdotya (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

8

It was formerly the custom in Russia for military men only to wear the mustache (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

9

A character in The Minor, a comedy by Denis Fonvizin (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).