It is easy to imagine what impression Alexei would make in the circle of our young ladies. He was the first to appear before them looking gloomy and disillusioned, the first to speak to them of lost joys and his faded youth; on top of that, he wore a black ring with the image of a death’s head. All this was extremely new in that province. The young ladies lost their minds over him.
But most interested of all in him was the daughter of my anglomaniac, Liza (or Betsy, as Grigory Ivanovich usually called her). The fathers did not call on each other, and she had not yet seen Alexei, while all her young neighbors talked only of him. She was seventeen years old. Dark eyes enlivened her swarthy and very pleasant face. She was an only child and consequently spoiled. Her playfulness and perpetual pranks delighted her father and drove to despair her governess, Miss Jackson, a prim old maid of forty, who whitened her face, blackened her eyebrows, reread Pamela6 twice a year, was paid two thousand roubles for it, and was dying of boredom “in this barbaric Russia.”
Liza was looked after by Nastya; she was a bit older, but as flighty as her young mistress. Liza loved her very much, revealed all her secrets to her, thought over all her fancies with her; in short, Nastya was a much more important person in the village of Priluchino than any confidante in a French tragedy.
“Allow me to go visiting today,” Nastya said one day as she was dressing the young lady.
“Of course; but where?”
“To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs’. Today is the cook’s wife’s name day. She came yesterday to invite us to dinner.”
“So,” said Liza, “the masters quarrel, and the servants entertain each other!”
“What do we care about the masters!” Nastya retorted. “Besides, I’m yours, not your father’s. You haven’t quarreled with young Berestov yet. Let the old folk fight, if it makes them happy.”
“Try to catch a glimpse of Alexei Berestov, Nastya, and tell me just exactly how he looks and what sort of man he is.”
Nastya promised, and Liza waited impatiently all day for her return. Nastya appeared in the evening.
“Well, Lizaveta Grigoryevna,” she said, coming into the room, “I saw young Berestov: had a good enough look at him; we spent the whole day together.”
“How’s that? Tell me, tell me everything in order.”
“As you please, miss. We went, me, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka…”
“All right, I know. So then?”
“Please, miss, I’ll tell it all in order. So we came just in time for dinner. The room was full of people. There were some from Kolbino, Zakharyevo, the clerk’s wife from Khlupino and her daughters…”
“Well, what about Berestov?”
“Wait, miss. So we sat down at the table, the clerk’s wife at the head, me next to her…The daughters pouted, but who cares about them…”
“Ah, Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details!”
“And how impatient you are! Well, so we got up from the table…and we’d been sitting there for about three hours, and it was a nice dinner; blancmange for dessert, blue, red, and stripy…So we got up from the table and went to the garden to play tag, and it was then that the young master appeared.”
“Well, so? Is it true he’s so good-looking?”
“Astonishingly good-looking, a handsome man, you might say. Tall, slender, all ruddy-cheeked…”
“Really? And I thought he had a pale face. So? How did he seem to you? Sad? Pensive?”
“What? Never in my life have I seen such a wild one. He took a notion to play tag with us.”
“To play tag with you! Impossible!”
“Very possible! And he had other notions, too! He’d catch a girl and start kissing her!”
“Say what you like, Nastya, you’re lying.”
“Say what you like, I’m not lying. I could barely fight him off. He spent the whole day playing with us.”
“How is it they say he’s in love and doesn’t look at anybody.”
“I don’t know, miss, but he looked at me quite a lot, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; and at Pasha from Kolbino, and, it’s sinful to say it, but there’s nobody he left out—such a naughty boy.”
“That’s amazing! And what do the servants say about him?”
“An excellent master, they say: so kind, so cheerful. The only bad thing is that he’s too fond of chasing after the girls. But for me there’s no harm in that: he’ll settle down in time.”
“How I’d love to see him!” Liza said with a sigh.
“What’s so tricky about that? Tugilovo isn’t far from us, only two miles: take a stroll in that direction, or go on horseback; you’re sure to meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he takes his gun and goes hunting.”
“No, no good. He might think I was chasing after him. Besides, our fathers have quarreled, so it will be impossible for me to get acquainted with him…Ah, Nastya! You know what? I’ll dress up like a peasant girl!”
“That’s it! Put on a coarse shirt, a sarafan, and set out boldly for Tugilovo. I guarantee you Berestov won’t pass you by.”
“And I can talk perfectly the local way. Ah, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a fine idea!” And Liza lay down to sleep with the firm intention of carrying out her amusing proposal.
The next day she proceeded to carry out her plan. She sent to the market for coarse linen, simple blue cotton, and copper buttons; cut out a shirt and a sarafan with Nastya’s help, had all the maidservants sit down to sew, and by evening everything was ready. Liza tried on the new outfit and confessed before the mirror that she had never yet found herself so pretty. She practiced her role, making low bows as she walked, then wagging her head several times like a china cat, talked in peasant parlance, covered her face with her sleeve when she laughed, and earned Nastya’s full approval. One difficulty remained: she tried walking barefoot in the yard, but the grass pricked her tender feet, and she found sand and gravel unbearable. Nastya was of help here, too: she measured Liza’s foot, ran out to the fields to the shepherd Trofim, and ordered a pair of bast shoes to that measure. The next day Liza woke up bright and early. The whole house was still asleep. Nastya waited for the shepherd outside the gate. A horn sounded, and the village flock filed past the master’s yard. Trofim, walking by Nastya, gave her the motley little bast shoes and received a fifty-kopeck reward from her. Liza quietly dressed herself as a peasant, whispered her instructions to Nastya regarding Miss Jackson, left by the back porch, and ran through the kitchen garden to the fields.
Dawn shone in the east, and the golden ranks of clouds seemed to be awaiting the sun, the way courtiers await the sovereign; the clear sky, the morning freshness, the dew, the breeze, and the birds’ singing filled Liza’s heart with a childlike gaiety. Fearing to meet someone she knew, she seemed not to walk but to fly. Approaching the wood that stood at the boundary of her father’s property, Liza slowed her pace. Here she was to await Alexei. Her heart beat fast, not knowing why itself; but the fear that accompanies our youthful pranks is their chief delight. Liza entered the twilight of the wood. Its muted, rolling murmur greeted the girl. Her gaiety died down. She gradually abandoned herself to a sweet reverie. She was thinking…but is it possible to define precisely what a seventeen-year-old girl is thinking, alone, in a wood, at five o’clock on a spring morning? And so, she walked deep in thought down the road, shaded on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a handsome pointer barked at her. Liza was frightened and cried out. Just then a voice said: “Tout beau, Sbogar, ici…”*2—and a young hunter appeared from behind the bushes.
“Don’t be afraid, dear,” he said to Liza, “my dog doesn’t bite.”
Liza had already recovered from her fright and managed to take advantage of the circumstances.
“No, master,” she said, pretending to be half frightened, half shy, “I am afraid. See how vicious he is; he may go for me again.”
Alexei (the reader has already recognized him) meanwhile gazed intently at the young peasant girl.
“I’ll accompany you, if you’re afraid,” he said to her. “Will you allow me to walk beside you?”
“Who’s to stop you?” Liza replied. “Freedom is as freedom does, and the road’s for everybody.”
“Where are you from?”
“From Priluchino. I’m the blacksmith Vassily’s daughter; I’m gathering mushrooms.” (Liza was carrying a basket on a string.) “And you, master? From Tugilovo, is it?”
“That’s right,” Alexei replied, “I’m the young master’s valet.” Alexei wanted to smooth over their difference. But Liza looked at him and laughed.
“That’s a lie,” she said. “Don’t take me for a fool. I can see you’re the master himself.”
“Why do you think so?”
“From everything.”
“What, though?”
“Can’t I tell a master from a servant? You dress different, talk different, and you don’t call your dog the way we do.”
Alexei liked Liza more and more every moment. Unaccustomed to any formalities in dealing with pretty village girls, he was about to embrace her, but Liza jumped away from him and adopted such a stern and cold look that, while Alexei nearly laughed, he refrained from further attempts.
“If you want us to be friends in the future,” she said with dignity, “kindly do not forget yourself.”
“Who taught you such great wisdom?” Alexei asked, bursting into laughter. “Was it my acquaintance, Nastenka, your mistress’s maid? See by what paths enlightenment spreads!”
Liza felt she had stepped out of her role, and put things right at once.
“And what are you thinking?” she said. “As if I’ve never set foot in the master’s yard? Don’t worry, I’ve heard and seen all kinds of things. Anyhow,” she went on, “if I chatter with you, I won’t gather any mushrooms. You go this way, master, and I’ll go that. Begging your pardon…”
Liza was about to leave, but Alexei caught her by the hand.
“What’s your name, dear heart?”
“Akulina,” Liza replied, trying to free her fingers from Alexei’s grip. “Do let me go, sir; it’s time I went home.”
“Well, Akulina, my friend, I’ll be sure to visit your father, the blacksmith Vassily.”
“Oh, no,” Liza objected quickly, “for Christ’s sake, don’t go there. If they find out at home that I was chatting with a squire alone in the wood, it’ll be bad for me: my father, the blacksmith Vassily, will beat me to death.”
“But I want to be sure I’ll see you again.”
“Well, I’ll come here again some time gathering mushrooms.”
“When?”
“Oh, tomorrow, say.”
“Dear Akulina, I’d kiss you, but I don’t dare. So, tomorrow, at the same time, is that right?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And you won’t deceive me?”
“No, I won’t.”
“Swear to God?”
“Well, so I swear to you by Saint Friday, I’ll come.”7
The young people parted. Liza emerged from the wood, crossed the fields, stole into the garden, and rushed headlong to the barn, where Nastya was waiting for her. There she changed, absentmindedly answering her impatient confidante’s questions, and presented herself in the drawing room. The table was laid, breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already whitened and laced in like a wineglass, was cutting thin slices of bread. Her father praised her for her early walk.
“There’s nothing healthier than getting up at dawn,” he said.
Here he cited several examples of human longevity, drawn from English magazines, noting that all people who lived to be over a hundred abstained from drink and arose at dawn both winter and summer. Liza did not listen to him. In her thoughts she went over all the circumstances of the morning’s meeting, the whole conversation of Akulina and the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain did she object to herself that their talk had not gone beyond the limits of propriety, that this prank could not have any consequences—her conscience murmured louder than her reason. The promise she had given for the next day troubled her most of all: she very nearly decided not to keep her solemn oath. But Alexei, having waited for her in vain, might go looking in the village for the daughter of the blacksmith Vassily, the real Akulina, a fat, pockmarked wench, and thus figure out her light-minded prank. This thought frightened Liza, and she decided to go to the wood again the next morning as Akulina.
For his part, Alexei was delighted; all day he thought about his new acquaintance; during the night the image of the swarthy beauty haunted his imagination even in sleep. Dawn had barely broken when he was already dressed. Giving himself no time to load his gun, he went out to the fields with his faithful Sbogar and ran to the place of the promised meeting. Around half an hour passed in unbearable expectation; at last he glimpsed the blue sarafan flashing amidst the bushes, and he rushed to meet dear Akulina. She smiled at his rapturous gratitude; but Alexei at once noticed traces of dismay and uneasiness on her face. He wanted to know the reason for it. Liza confessed that her conduct seemed light-minded to her, that she regretted it, that she had not wanted to break the word she had given this once, but that this meeting would be the last, and she asked him to end their acquaintance, which could not lead them to any good. This was all said, of course, in peasant parlance; but the thoughts and feelings, unusual in a simple girl, struck Alexei. He used all his eloquence to talk Akulina out of her intention; assured her of the innocence of his desires, promised never to give her any cause for regret, to obey her in all things, implored her not to deprive him of one delight: of seeing her alone, if only every other day, or at least twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion and in that moment was indeed in love. Liza listened to him silently.
“Give me your word,” she said finally, “that you will never look for me in the village or make inquiries about me. Give me your word that you will not seek any other meetings with me than those I set up myself.”
Alexei was about to swear by Saint Friday, but Liza stopped him with a smile.
“I have no need of an oath,” she said. “Your promise is enough.”
After that they talked amiably, strolling together through the wood, until Liza said to him: “It’s time.” They parted, and Alexei, left alone, could not understand how it was that in two meetings a simple village girl had managed to gain real power over him. His relations with Akulina had the charm of novelty for him, and though the strange peasant girl’s prescriptions seemed burdensome to him, the thought of not keeping his word never even entered his head. The thing was that Alexei, despite the fatal ring, the mysterious correspondence, and the gloomy disillusionment, was a good and ardent lad and had a pure heart, capable of feeling the joys of innocence.
If I were to heed only my own wishes, I would certainly describe in full detail the young people’s meetings, their growing inclination for and trust in each other, their occupations, their conversations; but I know that the majority of my readers would not share my pleasure. Such details, generally, are bound to seem cloying, and so I will skip them, saying briefly that, before two months were out, my Alexei loved her to distraction, and Liza, though quieter, was no more indifferent than he was. They were both happy with the present and gave little thought to the future.
The thought of indissoluble bonds flashed through their minds quite often, but they never spoke of it to each other. The reason was clear: Alexei, attached as he was to his dear Akulina, always remembered the distance that existed between him and the poor peasant girl; while Liza knew what hatred existed between their fathers, and dared not hope for a mutual reconciliation. Besides that, her vanity was secretly piqued by the vague, romantic hope of finally seeing the Tugilovo landowner at the feet of the Priluchino blacksmith’s daughter. Suddenly a major event nearly altered their mutual relations.
One clear, cold morning (of the sort our Russian autumn is so rich in), Ivan Petrovich Berestov went out for a ride on horseback, taking along, jus
t in case, three brace of borzois, a groom, and several serf boys with clappers. At the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the fine weather, ordered his bobtailed filly saddled and went trotting around his anglicized domain. Approaching the wood, he saw his neighbor, proudly sitting on his horse, in a Caucasian jacket lined with fox fur, waiting for a hare that the boys were trying to drive out of the bushes by shouting and clapping. If Grigory Ivanovich could have foreseen this encounter, he would certainly have turned aside; but he rode into Berestov quite unexpectedly and suddenly found himself within a pistol shot of him. There was nothing to be done. Muromsky, being an educated European, rode up to his adversary and greeted him politely. Berestov responded with all the diligence of a chained bear bowing to the “ladies and gentlemen” at his leader’s command. Just then a hare shot out of the wood and ran across the field. Berestov and his groom shouted at the top of their lungs, loosed the dogs, and galloped after them at top speed. Muromsky’s horse, who had never been at a hunt, took fright and bolted. Muromsky, who proclaimed himself an excellent horseman, gave her free rein and was inwardly pleased at the chance to rid himself of his obnoxious interlocutor. But the horse, coming to a gully she had not noticed before, suddenly swerved aside, and Muromsky was unseated. Falling rather heavily onto the frozen ground, he lay there cursing his bobtailed filly, who, as if coming to her senses, stopped at once, as soon as she felt herself riderless. Ivan Petrovich galloped over to him and asked if he was hurt. Meanwhile the groom brought the guilty horse, leading her by the bridle. He helped Muromsky to climb into the saddle, and Berestov invited him to his house. Muromsky could not refuse, for he felt himself obliged, and thus Berestov returned home in glory, having hunted down a hare and leading his adversary, wounded and almost a prisoner of war.
Novels, Tales, Journeys Page 12