Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Read online

‘Whose horse is that, my friend?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it belong to Minsky?’

  ‘Yes it does,’ replied the coachman. ‘And what business is it of yours?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what: your master ordered me to deliver a note to his Dunya, but I’ve forgotten where this Dunya lives.’

  ‘She lives here, on the second floor. You’re a bit late with that note, old friend. He’s already with her upstairs.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied the postmaster with an inexplicable flutter of the heart. ‘Thanks for letting me know, but I must do as I was told.’

  And with these words he climbed the staircase.

  The door was locked. He rang, and after an agonizing wait of a few seconds the key rattled and the door opened.

  ‘Does Avdotya8 Samsonovna live here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ answered a young housemaid. ‘What do you want with her?’

  Without replying the postmaster went into the hall.

  ‘You mustn’t go in, you mustn’t!’ the maid cried after him. ‘Avdotya Samsonovna has visitors.’

  But the postmaster ignored her and went straight on. The first two rooms were in darkness, but in the third there was a light. He went up to the open door and stopped. In the beautifully furnished room sat Minsky, deep in thought. Dunya, dressed splendidly in the latest fashion, was sitting on the arm of his chair, like a horsewoman on an English saddle. She was gazing tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor postmaster! Never had his daughter struck him as so beautiful; he could not help feasting his eyes on her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked, without raising her head… and with a shriek she fell on to the carpet. The frightened Minsky rushed to lift her up but, suddenly catching sight of the old postmaster in the doorway, left Dunya and went up to him, quivering with anger.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, clenching his teeth. ‘Why do you keep sneaking after me everywhere like a thief? Do you want to cut my throat? Clear off!’

  And with a powerful hand he grabbed the old man by the collar and pushed him down the stairs.

  The old man returned to his lodgings. His friend advised him to make an official complaint; but the postmaster, after pondering for a moment, gave it up as a lost cause and decided to take no further action. Two days later he left St Petersburg for his post-station to resume his duties.

  ‘It’s three years now since I’ve been living without Dunya,’ he concluded, ‘and not a word has been heard of her. Heaven knows whether she’s alive or dead. So many things can happen. She’s not the first, and nor will she be the last, to be seduced by a passing rake, kept for a while and then abandoned. There are many young fools like her in St Petersburg, dressed in satin and velvet today and tomorrow sweeping the streets with tavern riff-raff. At times, when I think that Dunya too might meet that fate, I can’t help sinfully wishing her in her grave.’

  Such was the story of my friend the old postmaster, a story interrupted more than once by tears which he picturesquely wiped away with his jacket sleeve, like the zealous Terentych in Dmitriyev’s beautiful ballad.9 The tears were partly brought on by the punch, of which he had drunk five glasses during the course of his narrative; however, they moved me deeply. After I had bidden him farewell it was long before I could get that old postmaster out of my mind, and for a long time I thought of poor Dunya…

  Not very long ago, as I was passing through the small town of*** I remembered my friend. I discovered that the post-station of which he had been in charge was now abandoned. To my question, ‘Is the old postmaster still alive?’, no one could give me a satisfactory answer. So I decided to visit that familiar place and, having hired some privately owned horses, I set out for the village of N**.

  It was autumn. Greyish clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew across the harvested fields, bearing red and yellow leaves from the trees along its path. I reached the village at sunset and stopped at the postmaster’s little house. A plump woman came out on to the porch (where once poor Dunya had kissed me) and in reply to my questions told me that it was about a year since the old postmaster had died, that a brewer now lived in the house and that she was the brewer’s wife. I started regretting the wasted journey and the seven roubles 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 village outskirts, next to his late wife.’

  ‘Could someone take me to his grave?’

  ‘Well, of course. Hey, Vanka! You’ve played with that cat long enough. Take the gentleman to the cemetery and show him the postmaster’s grave.’

  At these words a ragged, red-haired, one-eyed boy ran up to me and immediately led me to the outskirts of the village.

  ‘Did you know the dead man?’ I asked him on the way.

  ‘Oh yes! He taught me to carve whistles, he did. Whenever he came out of the tavern (God rest his soul!) we would shout after him, “Grandpa! Grandpa! Give us some nuts!” And he would give us all nuts. He was always playing with us.’

  ‘Do travellers remember him?’

  ‘There’s few travellers nowadays. Now and then the assessor might drop in, but he’s not interested in the dead. Last summer a lady came here. She asked about the old postmaster and then visited his grave.’

  ‘What kind of lady?’ I asked inquisitively.

  ‘A really beautiful lady,’ the boy replied. ‘She was riding in a carriage with six horses and with her were three young boys, a nanny and a little black pug-dog. And when she heard that the old postmaster was dead, she started crying and told the boys, “Now, you sit still while I go to the cemetery.” I offered to take her there, but the lady said, “I know the way myself.” And she gave me a silver five-copeck piece – such a kind lady!’

  We arrived at the cemetery, a bare place, completely unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses that were not shaded by a single tree. Never had I seen such a miserable cemetery.

  ‘Here’s the old postmaster’s grave,’ the boy told me, leaping on to a heap of sand into which was stuck a black cross with a copper image.

  ‘And did the lady come here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes she did,’ replied Vanka. ‘I watched her from the distance. She lay down here – and she stayed like that for a long time. And then she went back to the village, sent for the priest, gave him some money and drove off. And she gave me a silver five-copeck piece – such a nice lady!’

  I too gave the lad a five-copeck piece, and no longer did I regret the journey or the seven roubles I had spent on it.

  THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER

  You look pretty, Dushenka, in any dress you wear.

  Bogdanovich1

  In one of our remote provinces was situated the estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. In his youth he had served in the Guards, but he resigned his commission at the beginning of 1797, returned to his estate and since then had never left it. He married a poor gentlewoman who died in childbirth while he was away on a hunting trip. He soon found consolation in busying himself with the administration of his estate. He built a house to his own plan, established a textile mill, trebled his income and soon began to consider himself the cleverest man in the entire district – and in this he was not contradicted by the neighbours who came to visit him with their families and dogs. On weekdays he went around in a velveteen jacket, and on holidays he would wear a frock-coat of homespun cloth. He kept an account of his expenses himself and never read anything besides the Senate Gazette.2 On the whole he was liked, although he was considered proud. Only Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his closest neighbour, was not on good terms with him. The latter was a true Russian gentleman. Having squandered the major part of his fortune in Moscow, and having become a widower at the same time, Muromsky retired to his last remaining estate where he continued to fritter away his fortune, but in a novel way. He laid out an English garden, on which he lavished almost his entire remaining
capital. His stable-boys were dressed like English jockeys. His daughter had an English governess. He cultivated his fields according to the English method:

  But Russian grain fares badly when alien methods are observed3 and, despite a significant reduction in expenditure, Grigory Ivanovich’s income did not increase; even in the country he found ways of incurring new debts. For all that he was considered no fool, since he was the first landowner in his province to think of mortgaging his estate with the Board of Guardians,4 a proceeding considered at the time extremely complex and daring. Berestov was the severest of all his critics. Hatred of innovation was his distinguishing feature. He was unable to speak calmly about his neighbour’s Anglomania and constantly sought occasion to criticize him. If he happened to be showing a visitor around his property he would answer praise of the way he ran his estate by saying with a crafty smile, ‘Ah, yes, sir! I don’t manage my affairs like my neighbour Grigory Ivanovich. Why should we ruin ourselves English style? As long as we have enough to eat, Russian style!’ These and similar jests, thanks to the zeal of his neighbours, were brought to the ears of Grigory Ivanovich greatly embellished. The Anglomaniac endured criticism just as impatiently as our journalists do. He was furious and called his carping critic a boor and a country bumpkin.

  Such were the relations between these two landowners when Berestov’s son returned to his father’s estate. He had been educated at the University of*** and was intending to go into the army, but his father would not consent to this. The young man felt completely unsuited for the civil service. Neither would give way, and for the time being Aleksey led the life of a gentleman, letting his moustache grow, in case he should need one.5

  Aleksey was really a fine young man. Indeed, it would have been a pity if, instead of being able to show off on a charger, he had been forced to spend his youth poring over official documents. When the neighbours saw him always riding at the head of the hunt, galloping regardless of where he was going, they all agreed that he would never make a decent chief clerk. Young ladies would take a good look at him, and some were lost in admiration; but Aleksey did not bother about them very much, and they ascribed his aloofness to some love-affair. Indeed, a piece of paper with the address from one of his letters was passed from hand to hand:

  To Akulina Petrovna Kurochkin in Moscow, opposite the Alekseyev Monastery, at Savelyev the coppersmith’s house, humbly requesting her to hand this letter to A. N. R.

  Those of my readers who have never lived in the country cannot imagine how delightful these provincial young ladies are! Brought up in the fresh air, in the shade of the apple trees in their gardens, they derive their knowledge of the world and life from books. Solitude, freedom and reading develop in them, at an early age, sentiments and passions unknown to our beauties living among the distractions of the city. For a young country lady the jingle of harness bells is an event in itself, a trip to the nearest town is a landmark in her life and a visit from a friend leaves long and sometimes lasting memories. Of course, anybody may choose to laugh at some of their eccentricities if they so wish, but the jokes of a superficial observer cannot nullify their essential qualities, of which the most important is that unique originality of character (individualité), without which, in Jean-Paul’s opinion,6 there can be no human greatness. In the capital cities7 women possibly receive a better education; but the life of society quickly effaces character and makes their souls as uniform as their head-dresses. Let this not be said in judgement or in censure. However, nota nostra manet,8 as one of the ancient commentators wrote.

  The impression Aleksey was bound to make in the circle of our young ladies is easy to imagine. He was the first to appear to them gloomy and disenchanted, the first to speak of lost joys and faded youth; moreover, he wore a black ring engraved with a death’s head. All of this was something quite novel in that province. The young ladies went mad over him.

  But no one was as interested in him as Liza (or Betsy as Grigory Ivanovich called her), the daughter of our Anglomaniac. Since the parents were not on visiting terms, she had not yet seen Aleksey, but with the young ladies of the neighbourhood he was the sole topic of conversation. Liza was seventeen years old. Black eyes enlivened her dark-complexioned, extremely pleasant face. She was an only and therefore a spoilt child. Her liveliness and constant pranks delighted her father and were the despair of her governess, Miss Jackson, a prim old maid of forty, who powdered her face, dyed her eyebrows and read the whole of Pamela9 twice a year, for which she was paid two thousand roubles a year, and who was dying of boredom in this ‘barbarous Russia’.

  Liza was waited upon by Nastya who, although a little older, was just as high-spirited as her mistress. Liza was very fond of her, shared all her secrets with her and joined her in planning her pranks. Briefly, Nastya was a far more significant person in the village of Priluchino than any confidante in a French tragedy.

  ‘May I go out on a visit today?’ Nastya asked one day as she was dressing her mistress.

  ‘Certainly. But where to?’

  ‘To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs. It’s the name-day of the cook’s wife, and yesterday she came over and invited us to dinner.’

  ‘Well!’ said Liza. ‘The masters are at loggerheads, yet the servants are entertaining each other.’

  ‘And what do we have to do with the masters?’ retorted Nastya. ‘Besides, I belong to you, not your papa. You haven’t quarrelled so far with the young Berestov. Let the old ones fight each other if that’s what they enjoy.’

  ‘Try to catch a glimpse of Aleksey Berestov, Nastya, and then you can tell me exactly what he looks like and what kind of man he is.’

  Nastya promised to do so and Liza waited impatiently all day long for her return. Nastya appeared in the evening.

  ‘Well, Lizaveta Grigoryevna,’ she said, entering the room. ‘I’ve seen young Berestov. I managed to have a really good look at him. He was with us the whole day.’

  ‘How was that? Tell me everything, exactly as it happened.’

  ‘Well, we set off, myself, Anisya, Nenila, Dunka…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. And then?’

  ‘Please wait a moment. I shall tell you everything, just as it happened. We all arrived just in time for dinner. The room was full of people. The folk from Kolbino were there, from Zakharyevo, the steward’s wife and her daughters, folk from Khlupino…’

  ‘Go on! And what about Berestov?’

  ‘Please wait a moment. We sat down at the table. The steward’s wife had the place of honour, I sat next to her… her daughters sulked, but I couldn’t have cared less about them.’

  ‘Oh, Nastya, how tedious you are with your interminable details!’

  ‘And how impatient you are! So we left the table… we had been sitting down for about three hours, and it was a wonderful dinner; there was red, blue and striped blanc-mange… So we left the table and went into the garden to play catch, and then the young master appeared.’

  ‘Well? Is it true that he is so handsome?’

  ‘Extremely handsome, a real beauty you might say. Tall, a fine figure, and with rosy cheeks.’

  ‘Really? And I thought that his face would be pale. Well, how did he strike you? Sad and thoughtful?’

  ‘Oh no! I’ve never seen such a wild one in my life. He decided to join in the game with us.’

  ‘Play catch with you? Impossible!’

  ‘Oh, very possible! And what he thought of next! Whenever he caught someone he’d kiss her!’

  ‘Come now, Nastya, you’re fibbing.’

  ‘No I’m not. I had a hard job getting away from him. He spent the whole day with us.’

  ‘But why is it they say he’s in love and that he doesn’t look at anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but I do know that he looked at me a lot, far too much, and at Tanya the steward’s daughter too, and at Pasha from Kolbino. But the truth is, he didn’t ignore anyone. Such a scamp he was!’

  ‘That’s extraordinary! And what do they say abo
ut him in the manor-house?’

  ‘They say he’s a fine master. He has one fault, though. He’s far too fond of running after the girls. But if you ask me there’s no harm in that. He’ll settle down in time.’

  ‘How I would love to see him!’ sighed Liza.

  ‘What’s so difficult about that? Tugilovo’s not far from here, only about two miles. Why not walk there, or go over on horseback. You’ll be bound to meet him. Early every morning he goes hunting with his gun.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be right. He might think that I’m running after him. Besides, our parents have fallen out, so I can’t possibly get to know him… Oh, Nastya! Do you know what? I shall dress up as a peasant girl!’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Put on a coarse smock, a sarafan,10 and boldly walk to Tugilovo. I give you my word that Berestov will not pass you by.’

  ‘And I can imitate the way the peasants speak here. Oh, Nastya, my dear Nastya! What an excellent idea!’

  And Liza went to bed with the firm intention of carrying out her bright scheme.

  On the very next day she started to put it into action. She sent to the market for some coarse cloth, blue nankeen and brass buttons and with Nastya’s help cut out for herself a smock and a sarafan. Then she set all the maids to work on the sewing and by evening all was ready. Liza tried on her new clothes and had to admit to herself before the mirror that never had she looked so charming. She rehearsed her part, curtseying low while walking and then nodding several times, like those china cats with moving heads; she spoke in peasant fashion and laughed behind her sleeve, for which she earned Nastya’s whole-hearted approval. Only one thing proved troublesome: when she tried to walk over the courtyard barefoot the turf pricked her tender feet, and she found the sand and gravel unbearable. Here too Nastya immediately came to her assistance. She measured Liza’s feet, ran off to the fields to find Trofim, the shepherd, and ordered a pair of bast shoes from him to fit Liza. Next day Liza was already awake at crack of dawn. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. Nastya was at the gate, waiting for the shepherd. A horn sounded and the village flock slowly moved past the manor-house in a long line. As he passed by Trofim gave Nastya a pair of small, brightly coloured bast shoes, for which he was rewarded with fifty copecks. Liza quietly put on her peasant costume, whispered instructions regarding Miss Jackson to Nastya, left by the back door and ran through the kitchen garden into the fields.