They sat down at the table. Aleksey continued to play his absentminded, pensive role. Liza spoke mincingly, in a sing-song voice, and only in French. Her father kept looking at her, unable to understand what her intention was, but finding it all most amusing. The English governess sat silently fuming. Only Ivan Petrovich seemed at home: he ate for two, drank his fill, laughed at his own jokes and conversed with increasing jollity.
At last everyone rose from the table; the guests departed and Grigory Ivanovich gave free rein to laughter and questions.
‘Whatever were you thinking of, making fools of them like that?’ he asked Liza. ‘And do you know what? The powder suits you admirably. I shall not pry into the secrets of a lady’s toilette, but if I were you I would start using powder regularly. Not too much, of course, just a little.’
Liza was delighted at the success of her scheme. She embraced her father, promised to consider his advice and then ran off to pacify the furious Miss Jackson, who was most reluctant to open her door and listen to her excuses. Liza was ashamed to appear before strangers with such a dark complexion; she did not dare ask… She was convinced that dear, kind Miss Jackson would forgive her… and so on. Once reassured that Liza had not intended making a laughing-stock of her, Miss Jackson calmed down, kissed Liza and as a token of reconciliation presented her with a small jar of English powder which Liza accepted with an expression of sincere gratitude.
The reader will guess that next morning Liza lost no time in keeping her rendezvous at the grove.
‘You were at our master and mistress’s house last night, sir, weren’t you?’ she asked Aleksey right away. ‘What did you think of our young mistress?’
Aleksey replied that he had not noticed her.
‘It’s a pity,’ Liza replied.
‘Why is that?’ asked Aleksey.
‘Because I was wanting to ask you if what they say is…’
‘What do they say?’
‘That it’s true that I look like her.’
‘What nonsense! Compared with you she’s a positive freak.’
‘Oh, sir, it’s not right that you should say such things. Our young mistress is so fair, so elegant. How could I compare myself with her!’
Aleksey swore that she was more beautiful than all the fair young ladies in creation and in order to set her mind completely at rest began describing her mistress in such comical terms that Liza laughed fit to burst.
‘However,’ she sighed, ‘our young lady may be ridiculous, but in comparison with her I’m a poor ignorant fool.’
‘Really?’ said Aleksey, ‘that’s nothing to get upset about! If you like I’ll start teaching you to read and write at once.’
‘Do you mean it?’ Liza asked. ‘Well, why don’t I give it a try?’
‘If you like we can start now.’
They sat down. Aleksey took a pencil and notebook from his pocket, and Akulina learnt the alphabet with astonishing speed. Aleksey could not but marvel at her powers of comprehension. The following morning she wanted to try writing; at first her pencil would not obey her, but within a few minutes she was able to trace letters quite competently.
‘How amazing!’ Aleksey said. ‘We’re making better progress than if we used the Lancaster system.’14 Indeed, by the third lesson Akulina could already work her way through Natalya the Boyar’s Daughter,15 making observations while she read that truly astounded Aleksey, after which she filled a whole page with aphorisms chosen from the story.
One week passed and they started writing to each other. Their post office was the hollow of an old oak tree, and Nastya secretly performed the duties of a postman. It was here that Aleksey brought letters written in a bold hand; it was here that he found the scribblings on plain blue paper of his beloved. Akulina, evidently, had swiftly accustomed herself to expressing herself more elegantly, and her powers of comprehension underwent a marked development and improvement.
Meanwhile the recent acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky grew stronger and stronger, and soon became real friendship, as a result of the following circumstances. Muromsky had often reflected that upon Ivan Petrovich Berestov’s death all his property would pass into the hands of Aleksey, in which case he would become one of the wealthiest landowners in the province and that there would be no reason why Aleksey should not marry Liza. But although the elder Berestov, for his part, acknowledged a certain extravagance of behaviour (or, as he put it, ‘English folly’) in his neighbour, he readily admitted that he possessed many excellent qualities – for example, an uncommon resourcefulness. Grigory Ivanovich was a close relative of Count Pronsky, a most distinguished and powerful gentleman. The count could be very useful to Aleksey, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich Berestov) would probably rejoice at the opportunity of making such a good match for his daughter. After mulling over this matter in private the old men finally came to discuss it with one another, embraced, promised to see everything was properly arranged, and each got busy in his own way. But one difficulty confronted Muromsky: how to persuade his Betsy to become better acquainted with Aleksey, whom she had not seen since that memorable dinner. It did not appear that they liked each other very much; at least Aleksey never came back to Priluchino and Liza would retire to her room every time Ivan Petrovich honoured them with a visit.
‘But,’ thought Grigory Ivanovich, ‘if Aleksey were to visit us every day Betsy would be bound to fall in love with him. That is in the order of things. Time will settle everything.’
Ivan Petrovich was not so anxious about the success of his plans. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe and, after a brief silence, said,
‘It’s a long time Aleksey, since you mentioned a military career. Or does a hussar’s uniform no longer tempt you?’
‘No, father,’ Aleksey replied respectfully. ‘I understand that you wouldn’t want me to join the hussars and it is my duty to obey you.’
‘Good,’ replied Ivan Petrovich. ‘I see that you’re an obedient son and that’s a great comfort to me. I don’t want to force you to do anything against your will. I shall not compel you – at least not for now – to enter the civil service. However, I do intend you to get married.’
‘To whom, father?’ asked Aleksey in astonishment.
‘To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,’ Ivan Petrovich replied. ‘A splendid match, don’t you agree?’
‘I’m not thinking of marrying just yet, father.’
‘You’re not thinking, so I’ve done the thinking for you – and I’ve thought a great deal about it.’
‘As you please, but I do not like Liza Muromsky at all.’
‘But you will later. Love is just a matter of habit.’
‘I don’t feel I’m capable of making her happy.’
‘Don’t worry about making her happy, that’s not your problem. Well? Is this how you respect your father’s wishes? A fine thing!’
‘As you like, but I do not wish to marry and I shall not marry.’
‘You shall marry or I’ll curse you. As for the estate, I shall sell it and squander all the money and not leave you with a copeck. As God is my witness! I’m giving you three days to think about it and in the meantime keep out of my sight.’
Aleksey knew that once his father got an idea into his head then, as Taras Skotinin16 put it, not even a nail could force it out. But Aleksey took after his father and was just as stubborn when it came to an argument. He retired to his room and began to reflect upon the limits of paternal authority, Liza Muromsky, his father’s solemn vow to cut him off completely and finally Akulina. For the first time he saw quite clearly that he was passionately in love with her. The romantic idea of marrying a peasant girl and living on the fruits of his labours crossed his mind, and the more he thought about such a decisive step, the more sensible it seemed. There had been no meeting in the grove for some time on account of the rainy weather. He wrote to Akulina in the clearest handwriting and most frenzied style, telling
her of the ruin that was threatening them and offering her his hand, there and then. He took the letter immediately to the ‘post office’ in the tree hollow and went to bed exceedingly pleased with himself.
Early next morning Aleksey, firm of resolve, rode over to Muromsky for a frank discussion. He was hoping to arouse his magnanimity and win him over to his side.
‘Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?’ he asked, bringing his horse to a stop at the front steps of the Priluchino manor-house.
‘No, sir,’ replied the servant. ‘Grigory Ivanovich rode out early this morning.’
‘How annoying!’ thought Aleksey. ‘Is Liza Grigoryevna at home then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Aleksey sprang from his horse, handed the reins to the footman and entered the house unannounced.
‘All will be decided now,’ he thought as he made his way to the drawing-room. ‘I shall explain everything personally.’
He entered… and stood there as if stunned! Not Liza… but Akulina, dear, dark-complexioned Akulina, not in a sarafan but in a white morning frock, was sitting by the window reading his letter; she was so engrossed that she had not heard him enter. Aleksey could not restrain a cry of joy. Liza started, raised her head, cried out and attempted to escape from the room. But Aleksey rushed to hold her back.
‘Akulina, Akulina!’
Liza tried to break free from his grasp.
‘Mais laissez-moi donc, Monsieur; mais êtes-vous fou?’17 she said, turning away from him.
‘Dear Akulina! My dear Akulina!’ he repeated, kissing her hands. Miss Jackson, a witness to this scene, did not know what to make of it. At that moment the door opened and Grigory Ivanovich entered.
‘Aha!’ said Muromsky, ‘so it’s all settled between you two…’
Readers will spare me the unnecessary duty of describing the denouement.
END OF THE TALES OF BELKIN
THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GORYUKHINO
Should God grant me readers, perhaps they will be curious to know how it was that I decided to write the history of the village of Goryukhino. To that end I must enter into a few preliminary details.
I was born of upright and honourable parents in the village of Goryukhino on 1 April 1801 and received my elementary education from our parish clerk. It is to this worthy gentleman that I am indebted for what was to develop later into my love of reading and of literary pursuits in general. My progress was slow, but sound, since I knew at the age of ten everything that has since remained in my memory which is weak by nature and which, on account of my equally weak health, I was not allowed to overburden.
The calling of a man of letters has invariably struck me as the most enviable of all. My parents, respectable but simple people and educated according to old-fashioned methods, never read anything, and with the exception of an alphabet that they bought for me, some almanacs and the latest Manual of Letter Writing,1 there were no other books to be found in the entire house. Reading the Manual was for a long time my favourite exercise. Although I knew it by heart, every day I discovered gems that I had not noticed before. After General Plemyannikov,2 to whom my father was once adjutant, Kurganov struck me as the greatest of men. I questioned everyone about him, but unfortunately no one was able to satisfy my curiosity, no one knew him personally and the sole reply I received to all my questions was that Kurganov had written the latest Manual of Letter Writing, which I knew well enough already. He was lost in the mists of obscurity, like some ancient demigod; sometimes I even doubted whether he actually existed. His name struck me as pure invention and the legend surrounding him as an empty myth awaiting the investigations of some new Niebuhr.3 For all that, Kurganov still haunted my imagination. As I tried to give some form to that figure, I finally decided that he must resemble the district assessor Koryushkin, a little old man with red nose and sparkling eyes.
In 1812 I was taken to Moscow and placed in Karl Ivanovich Meyer’s boarding-school, where I spent no more than three months as we were sent home just before the enemy invasion, and so I returned to the country. After the Twelve Nations4 had been driven out, my parents wanted to take me back to Moscow again to see whether Karl Ivanovich Meyer had returned to his former abode and, if he had not, to send me to some other school; but I begged my mother to let me stay in the country, claiming that my poor health did not permit me to get up at seven o’clock in the morning, which is the normal practice in all boarding-schools. And so, when I had reached the age of sixteen, my standard of education was still at the same elementary stage as before, and I was still playing ball games with my friends in the village – this was the sole science in which I had acquired an adequate grounding during my residence at boarding-school.
At this time I enlisted as a cadet in the*** infantry regiment, in which I remained until last year, 18**. My time with the regiment left me with few agreeable impressions, apart from being commissioned and winning 245 roubles when all I had in my pocket was sixty copecks. The deaths of my beloved parents obliged me to resign my commission and retire to the estate I had inherited.
This period of my life is so important to me that I intend going into great detail, craving in advance the forgiveness of my gracious reader if I should abuse his indulgent attention.
It was an overcast day in autumn. After arriving at the post-station where I had to turn off for Goryukhino, I hired some fresh horses and drove off down the country road. Although I am placid by nature, my impatience to see again those places where I had spent my happiest years gripped me so strongly that I constantly urged on my coachman, first promising him a tip, then threatening him with blows: since it was easier for me to prod him in the back than to take out and untie my purse, I do confess that I struck him two or three times, something I had never done in my life, since the class of drivers – why, I do not know – is particularly dear to me. The driver urged his troika on, but I had the impression that – faithful to the habit of drivers – while exhorting the horses and waving his whip, he was at the same time tightening the reins. At length I caught sight of Goryukhino Copse; within ten minutes we were driving into the manor-house courtyard. My heart beat violently as I looked around with indescribable emotion: it was eight years since I had set eyes on Goryukhino. The birch saplings that had been planted near the fence at the time I lived there had grown into tall, spreading trees. The courtyard, once embellished by three regularly shaped flower-beds, between which ran a broad, sand-strewn path, was now an unmown meadow on which grazed a brown cow. My brichka5 stopped at the front steps. My servant went to open the door, but it was boarded up, although the shutters were open and the house appeared to be inhabited. A woman came out of one of the peasant cottages and asked whom I wanted to see. When she learnt that her master had arrived, she ran back into her cottage, and soon I was surrounded by the household servants. I was touched to the very depths of my heart when I saw faces familiar and unfamiliar – and I kissed all of them in friendly fashion: my boyhood friends were now men, and young girls who had once sat on the floor waiting to run errands were now married women. The men wept. I told the women unceremoniously, ‘How you’ve aged,’ and they replied with feeling, ‘And how plain you’ve become, master.’ I was taken to the back entrance, where my old wet-nurse wept and sobbed as she came out to greet me, just as if I were the long-suffering Odysseus. They rushed off to heat a bath for me. The cook, who now had nothing to do and had let his beard grow, offered to prepare dinner – rather, a late supper – for me, since it was already dark. The rooms formerly occupied by my wet-nurse and my late mother’s maids were immediately prepared for me, and so I found myself in my parents’ humble abode and fell asleep in that same room in which I was born twenty-three years before.
About three weeks passed in all kinds of fuss and bother – I was busy with assessors, marshals of the nobility and every imaginable kind of provincial official. Finally I came into my inheritance and took possession of my patrimony; I had peace of mind, but soon the boredom of inactivity began t
o torment me. I was not yet acquainted with my worthy and respected neighbour ***. Running an estate was something quite foreign to me. The conversation of my wet-nurse, whom I had promoted to housekeeper and manageress, consisted of fifteen domestic anecdotes, all very interesting for me, but as she was in the habit of always telling them in the same way, she became for me another Manual of Letter Writing, in which I knew where each line would be on any of its pages. That good old Manual I found in the store-room, amidst junk of all kinds, and in a sorry state. I brought it out into the light and started to read, but Kurganov had lost his former charm – I read him once more, after which I never opened the book again.
In this extremity it occurred to me that I should endeavour to write something of my own. My gracious reader knows already that I was educated on a pittance and that I never had the chance of acquiring on my own what had once been neglected, playing as I did up to the age of sixteen with servants’ sons and then moving from province to province, from billet to billet, spending my time with Jews and sutlers, playing on torn billiard tables and tramping through the mud.
Moreover, to be a writer struck me as so complicated, so unattainable for us the uninitiated, that the thought of taking pen in hand at first frightened me. Dare I hope to become a writer one day, when my burning desire to meet just one of them had never been fulfilled? But this reminds me of an incident which I intend relating as evidence of my undying passion for our native letters.
In 1820, while I was still a cadet, I happened to be in St Petersburg on government business. I stayed there a week and, despite the fact that I did not know a soul there, spent an extremely jolly time. Every day I would go off to the theatre and sit in the fourth row of the gallery. I got to know all the actors by name and fell passionately in love with ***, who one Sunday played with great skill the part of Amalia in the drama Hatred and Repentance.6 In the mornings, when I returned from Headquarters, I used to drop in at a little coffee-house and read the literary journals over a cup of chocolate. One day I was sitting there engrossed in a critical article in Good Intentions when a gentleman in a pea-green overcoat came up to me and gently took from under my journal a copy of the Hamburg Gazette. I was so absorbed in my article that I did not so much as look up. The stranger ordered a beefsteak and sat opposite me; I carried on reading without paying him any attention; meanwhile he ate his lunch, angrily scolded the waiter for slovenliness, drank half a bottle of wine and left. Two young men were also having lunch at the time. ‘Do you know who that was?’ one asked the other. ‘That was B.,7 the writer.’ ‘The writer!’ I could not help exclaiming, and, leaving my journal unfinished and my chocolate half-drunk, rushed to pay my bill and without waiting for the change dashed into the street… looking all around I spotted the pea-green overcoat in the distance and set off after it along Nevsky Avenue, half-running. After a few paces I suddenly felt I was being stopped – I looked round and there was a Guards officer pointing out to me that I should not have knocked him off the pavement, when the correct thing was to stop and stand to attention. After this reprimand I was more careful; unfortunately for me I kept meeting an officer every minute, and every minute I was made to stop, so that the writer drew further and further ahead. Never in my life had my army overcoat seemed so heavy, never had I been so jealous of those with epaulettes. At length, at the Anichkin Bridge, I caught up with the pea-green overcoat.