Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she announced that she did not want any supper and took leave of her father and mother. They kissed her and gave her their usual blessing: she very nearly started crying. As soon as she reached her room she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears. Her maid urged her to be calm and to take heart. Everything was ready. Within half an hour Marya Gavrilovna was to leave her parents’ house, her room, her quiet girlish life for ever… Outside a blizzard was raging; the wind howled and the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed a threat, a bad omen. 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 hands and went out by the back stairs. Her maid followed her with two bundles. They went down into the garden. The blizzard had not abated; the wind blew in their faces, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They struggled to the bottom of the garden. On the road the sleigh was waiting for them. The chilled horses just would not keep still; Vladimir’s coachman was walking up and down by the shafts trying to restrain the restive steeds. He helped the young lady and her maid to seat themselves and stow away the bundles and box, grasped the reins, and the horses flew off. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and to the skill of Teryoshka, the coachman, let us return to our young lover.
All day long Vladimir had been driving around. In the morning he called on the priest at Zhadrino; after much difficulty he managed to come to an agreement with him; then he rode off to look for witnesses among the neighbouring landowners. The first person he called upon was Dravin, a retired forty-year-old cornet, who agreed with alacrity. The whole adventure, he affirmed, reminded him of the old days and his pranks in the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay for dinner and assured him that he would have no trouble finding another two witnesses. And in fact there arrived immediately after dinner the surveyor Schmidt, with moustache and spurs, and the son of the district police chief, a lad of sixteen who had recently joined the uhlans. Not only did they accept Vladimir’s proposal, but they even vowed that they were ready to lay down their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them rapturously and rode home to make his preparations.
It had been dark for some time. Vladimir dispatched his trusty Teryoshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed, lengthy instructions, ordered the little one-horse sleigh for himself and drove off without any coachman to Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was due to arrive in about two hours. He knew the road well, and it was only a twenty-minute drive.
But hardly had Vladimir driven out on to the open road when the wind rose and such a blizzard began to rage that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was covered with snow. The landscape all around disappeared in a murky yellowish fog through which white snowflakes flew; sky merged with earth. Vladimir found himself driving over fields and he tried in vain to get back on to the road again. His horse made its way by guesswork, every moment mounting a snowdrift or sinking into a hole, so that the sleigh kept turning over. Vladimir’s only concern was not to lose his way. But more than half an hour seemed to have passed already and still he had not reached Zhadrino Wood. Another ten minutes or so passed; still he could not see the wood. Vladimir drove over a field crisscrossed by deep gullies. The blizzard did not abate, the sky showed no sign of clearing. The horse began to tire, and the sweat poured from Vladimir, despite the fact that he was constantly waist-deep in snow.
Finally Vladimir saw that he was travelling in the wrong direction. He stopped to consider, to try and remember, to work it out and felt convinced that he should have turned right. So now he did turn right. His horse could barely move one leg in front of the other. He had been on the road for more than an hour. Zhadrino could not be far away. But on and on he went, and still the field did not come to an end. Nothing but snowdrifts and gullies; the sleigh was constantly turning over – and constantly he set it upright again. Time was passing; Vladimir became deeply worried.
At last he could see something black to one side. Vladimir turned towards it. As he approached he saw that it was a wood. Thank God, he thought, it’s not far now. He skirted the wood, hoping to come out on the familiar road any moment, or to pass right round the wood. Zhadrino was just beyond it. Soon he found a road and drove into the dark wood, whose trees had been stripped of their leaves by winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse took heart and Vladimir felt calmer.
But on and on he drove – and still there was no sign of Zhadrino; there was no end to the wood. Vladimir was horrified to see that he had driven into an unfamiliar wood. He was gripped with despair. He struck the horse; the poor animal broke into a trot but soon began to tire and after a quarter of an hour slowed to a walk, despite all the efforts of the hapless Vladimir.
Gradually the trees began to thin out, and finally Vladimir emerged from the wood; but there was no sign of Zhadrino. It must have been about midnight. Tears streamed from his eyes; he drove on, trusting in guesswork. In the meantime the blizzard had abated, the clouds dispersed and before him stretched a plain covered with a white, undulating carpet. The night was quite clear. Not far off he saw a hamlet, consisting of four or five cottages. Vladimir drove towards it. At the first cottage he leapt from the sledge, ran to the window and started knocking. After a few minutes the wooden shutter was raised, and an old man poked his grey beard out. ‘What d’ye want?’ ‘Is Zhadrino far from here?’ ‘Zhadrino? Far from here?’ ‘Yes, yes! Is it far?’ ‘Not far, about six miles I reckons.’ At this reply Vladimir clutched his hair and stood motionless, like a man condemned to death.
‘And where are you from?’ continued the old man. Vladimir did not have the spirit to reply to the question. ‘Old man,’ he said, ‘can you find me some horses to take me to Zhadrino?’ ‘What horses do you think we have here?’ the old man replied. ‘Well, can’t I at least take a guide? I shall pay him whatever he asks.’ ‘Wait,’ said the old man, lowering the shutter, ‘I’ll send my son out, he’ll guide you.’ Vladimir stood and waited. Barely had a minute elapsed before he started knocking again. The shutter was raised and the beard reappeared. ‘What d’ye want?’ ‘Where’s your son?’ ‘He’s coming right away; he’s just putting on his boots. Are you cold? Come inside and warm yourself.’ ‘No thank you. Send your son out, and quickly.’
The door creaked. A young lad came out with a cudgel and went on ahead, now pointing out, now looking for the road among the deep snowdrifts. ‘What time is it?’ Vladimir asked. ‘It’ll soon be daylight,’ the boy replied. 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 his guide and drove into the priest’s courtyard. His troika was not there. And what news awaited Vladimir!
But let us return to our worthy landowners of Nenaradovo and see what is happening over there.
Nothing.
The old couple awoke and went into the drawing-room. Gavrila Gavrilovich was in his nightcap and flannel jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in her quilted dressing-gown. The samovar was brought in and Gavrila sent a servant girl to ask how Marya Gavrilovna was feeling and what kind of night she had spent. The girl returned and announced that the young lady had not slept well, but that she was feeling better now and would soon join them in the drawing-room. And indeed the door opened and Marya Gavrilovna entered and greeted her father and mother.
‘How is your head, Masha?’ asked Gavrila Gavrilovich. ‘Better, Papa,’ Masha replied. ‘It must have been the fumes from the stove, Masha,’ said Praskovya Petrovna. ‘Probably, Mama,’ Masha replied.
The day passed happily, but during the night Masha was taken ill. They sent to town for a doctor. He arrived towards evening and found the sick girl delirious. A severe fever developed, and for two weeks the poor girl lay at death’s door.
No one in the house knew of the proposed elopement. The letters she had written the previous evening had been burnt; fearing her master’s wrath, the
maid had not breathed a word to a soul. The priest, the retired cornet, the moustached surveyor and the young uhlan kept a discreet silence – and not without reason. Teryoshka the coachman did not utter one word too many, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself, in her constant delirium, revealed her secret. However, what she said was so incoherent that her mother, who never quitted her bedside, could only make out that her daughter was hopelessly in love with Vladimir Nikolayevich and that in all probability her being in love was the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and several neighbours, and in the end all unanimously concluded that such was Marya Gavrilovna’s destiny, that marriages are made in heaven, that poverty is no crime, that one should live not with riches but with a person and so on. Moral commonplaces are amazingly useful when we can find little in ourselves with which to justify our actions.
Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long time in Gavrila Gavrilovich’s house. He was afraid of the usual reception. So they decided to send for him and tell him a piece of unexpected good news: their consent to the marriage. Imagine the astonishment of the Nenaradovo landowners when, in reply to their invitation, they received a half-insane letter from him! He informed them that he would never set foot in their house again and asked them to forget a poor wretch for whom the only hope was death. A few days later they learnt that Vladimir had gone to join the army. This was in the year 1812.
For a long time they dared not speak about it to Masha, who was now convalescing. Not once did she mention the name of Vladimir. Several months later, finding his name in a list of those who had distinguished themselves and had been gravely wounded at Borodino,4 she fainted, and it was feared the fever might return. However, thank goodness, her fainting fit had no serious consequences.
A fresh misfortune befell her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her heiress to the entire estate. But coming into her inheritance offered no consolation. She shared genuinely in the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna and vowed never to be parted from her. Both of them left Nenaradovo, scene of such sad memories, and went to live on another estate at***.
And there too suitors swarmed around that charming and rich prospective bride, but she did not hold out the slightest hope to any of them. Occasionally her mother tried to persuade her to make a choice. Masha would shake her head and become thoughtful. Vladimir no longer existed: he had died in Moscow, on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed sacred to Masha; at least, she kept everything that might remind her of him: books he had once read, drawings, music and poetry he had copied out for her. When the neighbours learnt about this, they marvelled at her constancy and awaited with curiosity the hero who would finally triumph over the sad fidelity of this virginal Artemisia.5
Meanwhile the war ended gloriously. Our regiments were returning from abroad. The people ran to greet them. Bands played songs of the conquered enemy: Vive Henri-Quatre,6 Tyrolean waltzes and airs from Joconde.7 Officers who had left for the wars as mere boys returned having grown to manhood in the martial air, with medals hanging from their tunics. Soldiers gaily chatted to each other, constantly introducing German and French words into their speech. An unforgettable time! A time of glory and enthusiasm! How violently did Russian hearts beat at the word fatherland! How sweet were the tears of reunion! How we all combined, with such unanimity, a feeling of national pride with love for the Tsar! And for him what a moment it was!
The women – Russian women – were beyond comparison at that time. Their habitual coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating when, greeting the victors, they cried ‘Hurrah!’
And tossed their bonnets into the air.8
What officer of that time does not admit that it was to Russian women that he was obliged for his best and most precious reward… ?
At this brilliant time Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in*** province and did not see how the return of the troops was celebrated in both capitals. But in the provinces and villages the general enthusiasm was perhaps even stronger. The appearance of an officer in these parts was a genuine triumph for him and the frock-coated lover had no chance when he was in the vicinity.
We have already said that, despite her aloofness, Marya Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all of them 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 locality put it, appeared at the manor-house. He was about twenty-six. He had been given leave to visit his estate, which was in close proximity to Marya Gavrilovna’s. She singled him out for special attention. In his company her habitual pensiveness was replaced by cheerfulness. It could not be said that she actually flirted with him; but the poet, observing her behaviour, would have said:
Se amor non è che dunque?…9
Burmin was really a most charming young man. He possessed the type of mind that is so pleasing to women: urbane and observant, without any pretensions, and given to gentle mockery. His behaviour towards Marya Gavrilovna was unaffected and natural. But whatever she said or did, his heart and eyes invariably followed her. He seemed to be of a mild, inoffensive disposition; it was rumoured that he had once been a terrible rake, but that did him no harm in the eyes of Marya Gavrilovna who (like all young ladies) took pleasure in excusing his misdemeanours, which testified to the boldness and fieriness of his character.
But more than anything else… more than his gentleness, more than his pleasant conversation, more than his ‘interesting pallor’, more than his bandaged arm – it was the young hussar’s silences that excited her curiosity and imagination. She could not but admit to herself that he liked her very much. And most probably he too, with his intelligence and experience, had already noticed that she had singled him out for special attention. So why was it that, as yet, she had not seen him at her feet and heard him declare his love? What was holding him back? Timidity, inseparable from true love, or the flirtatiousness of a cunning philanderer? It was a mystery to her. After long reflection she decided that timidity was the sole cause of his reserve and proposed to encourage him by greater attentiveness and, should circumstances warrant it, even by a display of tenderness. She prepared the most surprising denouement and impatiently awaited the moment of romantic declaration. Secrets of any kind always weigh heavily on the female heart. Her military tactics had the desired effect: at least, Burmin lapsed into such a reverie and his black eyes rested on Marya Gavrilovna with such fire that the decisive moment seemed imminent. Her neighbours spoke of the marriage as a foregone conclusion, and the good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had finally found a worthy suitor.
One day the old lady was sitting alone in the drawing-room, laying out cards for grande patience, when Burmin entered and immediately asked for Marya Gavrilovna.
‘She’s in the garden,’ replied the old lady. ‘Go to her, I shall wait for you here.’
Burmin went out and the old lady crossed herself and thought: ‘Perhaps it will all be settled today!’
Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna under a willow near the pond, in a white dress, with a book in her hand – a true heroine from a novel. After the first questions she deliberately allowed the conversation to flag, thus increasing the mutual embarrassment, from which the only possible escape was by a sudden and decisive declaration of love. And that is what happened: Burmin, sensing the difficulty of his position, announced that he had long been seeking an opportunity to open his heart to her and requested a moment’s attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed her book and looked down as a sign of consent.
‘I love you,’ Burmin said. ‘I love you passionately…’ (Marya Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head even more.) ‘I have behaved imprudently by indulging myself in the charming habit of seeing and hearing you daily…’ (She recalled the first letter of St Preux.10) ‘Now it is too late to resist my fate; the memory of you, your charmin
g, incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and the joy of my life. But there still remains a painful duty for me to perform – to reveal a terrible secret, thereby placing an insurmountable barrier…’‘It has always existed,’ Marya Gavrilovna interrupted with animation. ‘I could never have been your wife…’ ‘I know,’ he replied quietly. ‘I know that once you were in love, but death and three years of mourning…Dear, kind Marya Gavrilovna! Do not attempt to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have agreed to make me happy if only…do not speak, for heaven’s sake, do not speak! You are tormenting me. Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but…I am the most wretched of creatures… I am married!’
Marya Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.
‘I am married,’ Burmin continued. ‘I have been married four years and I do not know who my wife is, where she is or whether I shall ever see her again!’
‘What are you saying?’ exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. ‘How very strange this is! Please continue; I shall tell you my story later, but please continue, I beg you.’
Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Page 5