Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow

by Irina Reyfman

  The speech of the nobleman from Kresttsy would not leave my head. His arguments on the futility of the power of parents over children seemed incontestable to me. Even if in a well-policed society the young must respect the old, and the inexperienced must respect perfection, there is no apparent necessity for parental power to be unlimited. If the bond between father and son is not established on tender sentiments of the heart, it is of course not firm, and it will remain not firm despite all the legislation. If the father sees in his son his slave and searches the legislation for power, if the son respects the father for the sake of an inheritance, what good is this to society? Either just another slave in addition to many others, or a serpent at one’s breast…. A father is obliged to nourish and educate a son and ought to be punished for the son’s misdeeds until he has entered his maturity, and a son should find his duties in his heart. If he doesn’t feel anything, then the father is guilty because he has not planted anything in him. The son has truly the right to demand a helping hand from the father for as long as he is helpless and immature, but once of age this inherent and natural link lapses. The chick does not seek the aid of the birds who produced it once it begins to find food on its own. The male and female forget their chicks when these have become mature. This is the law of nature. If the civil laws become estranged from it they always produce a freak. The child loves his father, mother, or teacher for as long as his love has not turned to another object. May your heart not be insulted by this, child-loving father, nature requires this. The sole comfort you will have lies in remembering that even your son’s son will love his father only to a mature age. Whereupon it will be up to you to attract his zeal to yourself. If you succeed in this, you will be blessed and deserving of respect.—These were my thoughts as I arrived at the post station.

  YAZHELBITSY

  It was determined by fate that this day was to be a test for me. I am a father, I have a tender heart toward my children. This was why the speech of the nobleman from Kresttsy so moved me. But while it shook me to my inner being, it poured out some soothing hopeful sensation that our bliss on account of our children depends in large part on ourselves. But in Yazhelbitsy it was my lot to be a witness of a spectacle that planted in my soul a deep root of sadness, and there is no hope it will be uprooted. O youth! Listen to my tale, learn your error, refrain from a voluntary disaster, and block the way to future repentance.

  I was riding past a cemetery. The extraordinary wail of a man who was tearing out his hair compelled me to stop. Getting closer, I saw that a funeral was taking place there. The moment had already come to lower the coffin into the grave. The man I had seen from afar tearing his hair out threw himself onto the coffin and by clutching at it with considerable strength hindered its descent into the earth. It was with great difficulty that he was deflected from the coffin, and they hastily lowered it into the grave and buried it. At that moment the sufferer addressed those present: “Why have you deprived me of him, why did you not bury me alive with him and not put an end to my sorrow and remorse? Know, know that I am the murderer of my beloved son, the dead one you consigned to the ground. Feel no surprise at this. I shortened his life neither by sword nor poison. No, I did worse. His death I had prepared before his birth by giving to him a life already poisoned. I am a murderer—there are many such—but I am a far crueler murderer than the others. A murderer of a son, my son, before his birth. I, I alone shortened his days by pouring insidious poison into his inception. It prevented his body from growing strong. During his entire lifetime not for a single day did he enjoy health; the diffusion of the poison interrupted the course of life of one who was dwindling in vitality. Nobody, nobody will punish me for my evil deed!” Despair was emblazoned on his face and he was carried from the spot practically lifeless.—

  A startling chill poured through my veins. I froze. I thought I had heard my condemnation. I recollected the dissolute days of my youth. I brought to mind all the instances when, thrown into tumult by feelings, my soul pursued their satisfaction, considering the mercenary partner in my amorous pleasure as a true object of ardor. I recollected that the lack of restraint in fornication visited a fetid disease on my body. Oh, if only its root had not penetrated so deeply! Oh, if only the satisfaction of fornication had put an end to it! Receiving this poison in our merriment not only we do incubate it in our loins, but we bequeath it as an inheritance to our descendants.—O my dear friends, O children of my soul! You do not know how badly I have sinned before you. Your pale brow is my condemnation. I dread informing you about the sickness you sometimes feel. You will, perhaps, hate me and you will be justified in your hatred. Who can reassure us, you and myself, that you do not bear in your blood the hidden sting destined to prematurely end your life span? Having contracted this fetid poison in my body at a mature age, the firmness of my limbs has resisted its spread and fights with its lethalness. But you, having contracted it at birth, carry it within you as integral part of your organism: how will you resist its destructive combustion? All your maladies are the results of this toxicity. O my dear ones! Weep over the error of my youth, invoke in aid the art of medicine, and, if you can, do not hate me.

  But it is now that the full extent of this voluptuous crime opens before my eyes. I sinned before myself by incurring when still youthful an untimely old age and decrepitude. I sinned before you by having poisoned your life juices before you were born and thereby predetermined your feeble health and, perhaps, a premature death. I sinned—and may this be a punishment to me—I sinned in my amorous ardor when I took your mother in marriage. Who can guarantee to me that I was not the cause of her extinction? A death-dealing poison, diffused in pleasure, was transferred to her chaste body and corrupted her innocent limbs. Its lethalness was all the greater by being more hidden. A false primness had prevented me from warning her; however, she was not wary of her poisoner in her passion for him. The inflammation that beset her was, perhaps, the fruit of the poison that I had given her…. O my dear ones, how greatly you must hate me!

  But who is the reason that this fetid illness produces in all kingdoms such devastation, mowing down not only the current generation but also shortening the span of future generations? Who is the cause if not the government? By sanctioning remunerated debauchery, it not only opens up the path to many vices but poisons the life of citizens. Public women find defenders, and in some countries come under the protection of the authorities. If the release of amorous passion for pay were prohibited then, some maintain, the shocks felt not infrequently in society would be powerful. Amorous passion would be the cause of not infrequent abductions, rapes, and murder. They might even shake the very foundations of societies.—And you would rather have quiet and the fatigue and sorrow that go with it than the health and bravery that go with disquiet. Keep silent, revolting teachers, you who are the mercenaries of tyranny, which, by always preaching peace and quiet, ensnares in chains those who have been lulled by flattery. Tyranny fears even peripheral disturbance. It would prefer thought to agree with it everywhere so that it can be reliably cossetted in grandeur and wallow in fornication…. I am not surprised by your words. It is proper that slaves want to see everyone in chains. A uniformity of fates eases their lot, while anyone’s superiority oppresses their reason and spirit.

  VALDAI

  The story goes that this little town was settled by Poles taken into captivity during the reign of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich. This little town is remembered for the erotic inclinations of its residents, and most especially its unmarried women.

  Who has not been to Valdai, who is not familiar with the pretzels of Valdai and Valdai’s rouged-up wenches? The brazen wenches of Valdai, their shame cast aside, impede every voyager and attempt to inflame the traveler’s concupiscence in order to profit from his generosity at the expense of their chastity. Comparing the morals of the inhabitants of this village, raised to the status of a city, with the morals of other Russian cities, you would take the former to be the most ancient, its corrupt morals
are the sole vestige of its ancient founding. But as it is only a little more than a hundred years since it was settled, one can conclude how debauched even its first residents must have been.

  The baths were, and still are, a place for amorous festivities. Once the terms of his visit with an accommodating old lady or a lad have been agreed, the traveler takes up temporary residence where he intends to make his sacrifice to Lada,62 the universally worshipped. Night has fallen. The bath is already prepared for him. The traveler undresses, enters the bath where the hostess, if she is young, greets him—or her daughter, or relations, or neighbors. They rub down his tired limbs, they wash off his dirt. They do this having shed their clothing, they ignite in him an erotic fire, and he spends the night here, losing money, health, and precious travel time. The story goes that in the past, in order to appropriate his property, these lascivious monsters would consign to death the incautious traveler, subdued by his erotic conquests and wine. I do not know whether this is true, but it is true that the brazenness of these Valdai wenches has diminished. And while they do not even now refuse to satisfy the desires of a traveler, their previous brazenness is no longer apparent.

  Lake Valdai, on which this city is built, will still be remembered in tales about the monk who sacrificed his life for the sake of his lover. One and a half versts* from the city, on an island in the middle of the lake, is situated the Iversk Monastery, built by the famous Patriarch Nikon. One of the monks of this monastery, when visiting Valdai, fell in love with the daughter of a resident of Valdai. The love soon became mutual, soon they hurtled towards its consummation. Once they had tasted its delight, they no longer had the strength to resist its compulsion. But the position of each created a barrier to this. The lover could not often be absent from his monastery; his mistress could not visit the cell of her lover. But their passion overcame all: out of the besotted monk it made a fearless man and endowed him with practically supernatural strength. Scarcely had the night covered everything visible in its black mantle, when this new Leander,63 in order to take his pleasure daily in the arms of his mistress, quietly emerged from his cell, and, taking off his cassock, swam across the lake to the opposite bank where he was welcomed into his beloved’s embraces. A bath and its amorous delights were already prepared for him and he would forget the danger and difficulty of the crossing, as well as fear that his absence could be discovered. He returned to his cell several hours before sunrise. He thus spent a long time in these dangerous traversals, compensating with nocturnal pleasure for the boredom of his daily confinement. But fate put an end to his amorous triumphs. On one of the nights when the intrepid lover set off across the waves to behold his dear one, a biting headwind suddenly rose up halfway through his trip. All his efforts to overcome the furious waters were futile. In vain did he exhaust himself by straining every muscle; in vain did he raise his voice to be heard in the moment of danger. When he saw the impossibility of reaching the shore, he conceived the idea to return to his monastery. With the wind behind him, it would be easier to reach that bank. But no sooner had he reversed his course when the waves, overpowering his tired muscles, plunged him into their yawning depths. On the morn, his body was found on a distant shore. If I had been writing an epic poem about this, I would have represented to my reader his mistress in anguish. But that would be excessive here. Everyone knows that at least for an initial moment a mistress despairs to learn the death of her dear one. But I do not even know whether our new Hero64 threw herself into the lake or perhaps on the next night yet again prepared a bath for a traveler. The chronicle of love relates that the beauties of Valdai did not die of love … except perhaps only in the hospital.

  The mores of Valdai have also encroached upon the closest postal station, Zimnogorye. Here the same sort of reception is readied for the traveler that he has in Valdai. The first thing to meet their gaze will be rouged-up girls and their pretzels. But since my youthful years had already passed, I hastily parted company with the painted sirens of Valdai and Zimnogorye.

  * one mile—Trans.

  EDROVO

  Having arrived at at a settlement, I got out of the carriage. Not far from the road, over the water, stood many women and young girls. The lust that had my entire life dominated me, though by now dimmed, took its usual course and directed my steps to the throng of these rustic beauties. This crowd consisted of more than thirty women. They were all in their holiday clothing, their necks exposed, feet bare, elbows uncovered, each dress tucked up in front under the girdle at the waist, white undershirts, cheerful glances, health written on their cheeks. Although coarsened by heat and cold, these attractions were no less charming for the lack of artifice: the beauty of youth in its full brilliance, a smile on the lips or a hearty laugh from which a row of teeth whiter than the purest ivory became visible. Teeth that would drive fashionable dressers out of their minds. Come hither, dear Muscovite and Petersburg young ladies, look at their teeth, learn from them how to keep them pure. They have no dentist. They do not daily rub the shine off their teeth with brushes and powder. Stand next to any of them as you please, mouth to mouth. None will infect your lung with their breath. But your own breath, your own might, perhaps, in them deposit the basis of … disease … which one I fear to say; while you might not blush, you would be angry.—Am I telling a lie?—One of you, your husband goes about with all the trashy wenches. Having contracted the disease, he drinks, eats, and, why, sleeps with you, while another woman deigns to have lovers by the year, month, week, or, God forbid, day. Having made his acquaintance in a day and fulfilled her desire, the next day she does not know him; indeed, sometimes she does not even know that she has already become infected through a mere kiss of his.—And you, my little dove, a fifteen-year-old maiden, perhaps you are still innocent; but I can see on your brow that your blood has been thoroughly poisoned. Your father of blessed memory hardly left the care of doctors, but to set you on her own pious path your good lady and mother has found you a bridegroom, a worthy elderly general, and only rushes to give you away in marriage in order not to make a visit to the orphanage with you. No bad thing it is to be married to a codger, complete freedom to do as you please. The main thing is to be wedded, all the children are his. Should he be jealous, so much the better: there is more pleasure to be had in frolics snatched secretly; from the first night, it should be possible to train him not to follow the stupid old custom of sleeping in one bed with his wife.—

  I was not keeping track how long you, my dear city in-laws, aunties, sisters, nieces, and so on, detained me. To tell the truth, you don’t deserve it. You have rouge on your cheek, rouge on your heart, rouge on your conscience, and on your sincerity you have … soot. It’s all the same whether it is rouge or soot. I would flee from you at full pelt to my country beauties. It is true that some among them resemble you, but there are others unheard of and never seen in cities. Look how round, stout, straight, and sound the limbs of my beauties are. You are amused that their feet are five or even six vershok* long. Well, then, my dear niece, with a foot size of three vershok†, stand next to them and launch into a race. Who will reach the tall birch at the end of the meadow faster? Tut-tut, that’s not your business.—And you, my dear little dove, dear sister, whose waist is three-quarters of an arshin‡, you deign to laugh that my country sprite’s belly is uncorseted. Hold on, my dear dove, I shall laugh a bit at you too. Here we are, more than nine months since marriage and your three-quarter arshin figure is already ruined. And when you get as far as childbirth, then you’ll sing a different tune. May God grant that be no more than a laughing matter. My dear brother-in-law goes around feeling blue. He has already thrown into the fire all your corset laces. He has removed the stays from your dresses but it’s too late—no way can he straighten those limbs of yours that grew crooked.—Grieve, my dear brother-in-law, grieve. Heeding the deplorable fashion known for causing the death of women in childbirth, for you our mother has laid up grief for many years to come, illness for her daughter, a weak constitutio
n for your children. Illness now brandishes over her head the fatal knife and if it does not touch your spouse’s life, thank chance; and if you believe that Divine Providence is concerned with the matter, then thank Providence if you like.—But I haven’t yet finished with these city ladies.—This is what habit does; no wish to have done with them. And, honestly, I’d not have parted from you if I could have persuaded you not to disguise with rouge your faces and sincerity. And now, goodbye. —

  While I gazed at the rustic nymphs washing dresses, my carriage left without me. I intended to follow it on foot when one wench who looked about twenty and was, of course, no more than seventeen, laying her wet laundry on the carrying pole, took the same road as I. Drawing level with her, I began a conversation with her. “Do you not find it hard to carry such a heavy load, my dear (what your name is I do not know)?” “My name is Anna, and my load is not heavy.65 And even if it were heavy, I would not have asked you, Master, to aid me.” “Why be so stern Annushka, my soul, I wish you no harm.” “Thank you, thanks. We often see rakes like you. Please, be on your way.” “Anyutushka, honestly, I am not how I seem to you and am not like those about whom you speak. They, I venture, do not initiate their conversation with village girls as I have, but always begin with a kiss; but even if I were to kiss you then it would only be, of course, as though you were my very own sister.” “Do not sidle up too close, please. I have heard stories of this kind; and if you intend no harm, what do you want from me?” “Annushka, my soul, I would like to know whether you have a mother and father, how you live, richly or scantily, or cheerfully, and whether you have a bridegroom.” “And what’s it to you, Master? This is the first time in my life I hear such speeches.” “From which you may judge, Anyuta, that I am not a villain, do not wish to bully or dishonor you. I love women because their constitution is made in a way that suits my capacity for tenderness; and I love country or peasant women even more because they are still ignorant of dissembling, do not assume the cover of feigned love, but when they love they love with all their heart and sincerely….” All this time the girl looked at me, her eyes popping with astonishment. And it could only be this way, since who does not know how impudently the nobleman’s bold hand grasps after tricks indecent and offensive to the chastity of country girls? In the eyes of old and young members of the nobility, these creatures were made for their delectation. They behave as you’d expect, especially with the unfortunate subjected to their commands. During the recent Pugachev disturbance, when all servitors took up arms against their masters, some peasants (this story is not untrue) tied up their master and were taking him to certain execution. What was the reason for this? He had been in every respect a good and humane master, but a husband was insecure concerning his wife and a father concerning his daughter. Every night the master’s scouts fetched for him a woman he had chosen that day to be sacrificed in dishonor. It was known in the village that he had defiled sixty girls, violating their virginity. When it arrived, a detachment of soldiers rescued this barbarian from the hands of his angry peasants. Stupid peasants, you sought justice from a Pretender!66 Why did you not inform your legal authorities about this? They would have condemned your master to civil death and you would have remained innocent. Now, however, the villain has been saved. Blessed is he if the immediate sight of death has changed his way of thinking and altered the flow of his vital juices.—But we said that the peasant is dead in the eyes of the law…. No, no, he is alive, he will be alive, if he wants it….