Over lunch the neighbors fell to talking quite amicably. Muromsky asked Berestov to lend him a droshky, for he confessed that on account of the pain he was in no condition to make it home on horseback. Berestov saw him off to the porch, and Muromsky left, but not before obtaining his word of honor that he would come the very next day (and with Alexei Ivanovich) for a friendly dinner in Priluchino. Thus an ancient and deeply rooted enmity seemed about to end owing to the shying of a bobtailed filly.
Liza ran out to meet Grigory Ivanovich.
“What does this mean, papa?” she said in surprise. “Why are you limping? Where’s your horse? Whose droshky is this?”
“You’ll never guess, my dear,”*3 Grigory Ivanovich replied, and he told her everything that had happened. Liza could not believe her ears. Giving her no time to recover, Grigory Ivanovich announced that the two Berestovs would dine with them the next day.
“What are you saying!” she cried, turning pale. “The Berestovs, father and son! Dining with us tomorrow! No, papa, say what you like, I won’t show myself for anything.”
“What, have you lost your mind?” her father retorted. “Since when have you become so bashful, or are you nursing a hereditary hatred for them, like a romantic heroine? Enough, don’t play the fool…”
“No, papa, not for anything in the world, not for the finest treasure will I appear before the Berestovs.”
Grigory Ivanovich shrugged and did not argue any more with her, for he knew that he would get nowhere by contradicting her, and he went to rest from his noteworthy ride.
Lizaveta Grigoryevna went off to her room and sent for Nastya. The two spent a long time discussing the next day’s visit. What would Alexei think if he recognized the well-bred young lady as his Akulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct and principles, of her sagacity? On the other hand, Liza wanted very much to see what impression such an unexpected encounter would make on him…Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind. She immediately told it to Nastya; they were both pleased with such a godsend and decided to carry it out without fail.
The next day over breakfast Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter whether she still intended to hide from the Berestovs.
“Papa,” Liza replied, “I’ll receive them if you like, only on one condition: however I appear before them, whatever I do, you’re not to scold me or show any sign of surprise or displeasure.”
“Again some sort of pranks!” Grigory Ivanovich said, laughing. “Very well, very well, I agree; do whatever you like, my dark-eyed little mischief.” With those words he kissed her on the forehead, and Liza ran off to get ready.
At exactly two o’clock a homemade carriage harnessed to six horses drove into the yard and rolled around the densely green circle of the lawn. Old Berestov went up the steps supported by two of Muromsky’s liveried lackeys. Behind him came his son, who arrived on horseback, and together they went into the dining room, where the table was already laid. Muromsky could not have received his neighbors more affably, proposed to show them the garden and the menagerie before dinner, and led them down the path, carefully swept and sprinkled with sand. Old Berestov inwardly begrudged the labor and time wasted on such useless whims, but kept silent out of politeness. His son shared neither the economical landowner’s displeasure, nor the vain anglomaniac’s raptures; he impatiently awaited the appearance of the host’s daughter, of whom he had heard so much, and though his heart, as we know, was already taken, a young beauty always had a right to his imagination.
Returning to the drawing room, the three sat down: the old men recalled former times and stories from their service, while Alexei reflected on the role he would play in the presence of Liza. He decided that in any case cold distraction would be the most suitable of all and prepared himself accordingly. The door opened, he turned his head with such indifference, with such proud nonchalance, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette was bound to shudder. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, old Miss Jackson came in, whitened, tight-laced, with downcast eyes and a little curtsy, and Alexei’s splendid military maneuver went for naught. Before he had time to regroup his forces, the door opened again, and this time Liza came in. They all rose. The father was just beginning to introduce the guests, but suddenly stopped and quickly bit his lip…Liza, his swarthy Liza, was whitened to the ears, her brows blackened even more than Miss Jackson’s; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, were fluffed up like a Louis XIV wig; sleeves à l’imbécile8 stuck out like Madame de Pompadour’s farthingale; her waist was laced up like the letter X, and all her mother’s diamonds that had not yet been pawned shone on her fingers, neck, and ears. Alexei could not have recognized his Akulina in this ridiculous and glittering young miss. His father went to kiss her hand, and he vexedly followed him; when he touched her white fingers, it seemed to him that they were trembling. At the same time he noticed a little foot, deliberately exposed and shod with all possible coquetry. That reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her attire. As for the white and black greasepaint, it must be confessed that in the simplicity of his heart he did not notice them at first glance, nor did he suspect them later on. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show any surprise; but his daughter’s mischief seemed so amusing to him that he could barely control himself. The prim Englishwoman was in no mood for laughter. She guessed that the black and white greasepaint had been purloined from her chest of drawers, and a crimson flush of vexation showed through the artificial whiteness of her face. She cast fiery glances at the young prankster, who, putting off all explanations for another time, pretended not to notice them.
They sat down at the table. Alexei went on playing the role of the distracted and pensive one. Liza minced, spoke in singsong through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept peering at her, not understanding what she was up to, but finding it all quite amusing. The Englishwoman was furious and said nothing. Only Ivan Petrovich felt at home: he ate for two, drank his fill, laughed at his own jokes, and talked and guffawed more and more amiably every moment.
They finally got up from the table; the guests left, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free rein to his laughter and his questions.
“What gave you a mind to fool them?” he asked Liza. “And do you know something? White greasepaint really becomes you; I won’t enter into the mysteries of feminine toilette, but in your place I’d use white greasepaint; not too much, of course, just a little.”
Liza was delighted with the success of her hoax. She embraced her father, promised to think over his advice, and ran to propitiate the annoyed Miss Jackson, who could hardly be persuaded to open her door and listen to her excuses. Liza had been ashamed to show such a swarthy face to strangers; she had not dared to ask…she was sure that good, kind Miss Jackson would forgive her…and so on and so forth. Miss Jackson, now persuaded that Liza had not thought to make fun of her, calmed down, kissed Liza, and in token of their reconciliation gave her a little jar of white English greasepaint, which Liza accepted with expressions of sincere gratitude.
The reader can guess that the next morning Liza was not slow to make her appearance in the grove of their meetings.
“Did you go to our masters’ yesterday, sir?” she asked Alexei at once. “How did you find the young lady?”
Alexei replied that he had not noticed her.
“A pity,” Liza retorted.
“Why is that?” asked Alexei.
“Because I wanted to ask you whether it’s true what they say…”
“What do they say?”
“Whether it’s true, as they say, that I supposedly resemble the young lady?”
“What nonsense! Next to you, she’s a real fright.”
“Ah, sir, it’s sinful for you to say so; our young lady’s so white, so elegant! As if I could compare with her!”
Alexei swore to her that she was better than all possible white-skinned young ladies and, to reassure her completely, began to portray her mistress in such funny strokes that Liza laughed heart
ily.
“Still and all,” she said with a sigh, “though my young lady may be ridiculous, I’m just an illiterate fool next to her.”
“Eh,” said Alexei, “there’s nothing to grieve over! If you like, I’ll teach you to read and write at once.”
“Really,” said Liza, “why not give it a try?”
“Very well, my dear, we’ll begin right now.”
They sat down. Alexei took a pencil and a notebook from his pocket, and Akulina learned the alphabet with surprising ease. Alexei could not marvel enough at her quick-wittedness. The next morning she also wanted to try writing; at first the pencil would not obey her, but after a few minutes she began to trace letters quite decently.
“What a wonder!” said Alexei. “Our studies go more quickly than by the Lancaster system.”9
Indeed, at the third lesson Akulina could already read “Natalya, the Boyar’s Daughter”10 syllable by syllable, interrupting her reading with remarks which truly amazed Alexei, and she covered a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms chosen from the same tale.
A week went by and they began to exchange letters. The post office was set up in a hole in an old oak tree. Nastya secretly performed the duties of postman. There Alexei brought letters written in a round hand, and there, on plain blue paper, he found the scribbles of his beloved. Akulina was evidently growing accustomed to a better turn of style, and her mind was noticeably developing and forming.
Meanwhile the recent acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky strengthened more and more and soon turned into friendship, owing to this particular circumstance: the thought often occurred to Muromsky that, at Ivan Petrovich’s death, all his property would pass into Alexei Ivanovich’s hands; that Alexei Ivanovich would thus become one of the richest landowners in the province; and that there was no reason why he should not marry Liza. Old Berestov, for his part, though he acknowledged a certain extravagance (or English folly, as he put it) in his neighbor, still did not deny that he had many excellent qualities—for instance, a rare resourcefulness: Grigory Ivanovich was closely related to Count Pronsky, a distinguished and powerful man; the count could be very useful to Alexei, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich) would probably be glad of the chance to give his daughter away in a profitable manner. The old men thought so much about all this, each to himself, that they finally talked it over together, embraced, promised to work things out properly, and set about it, each for his own part. Muromsky was faced with a difficulty: persuading his Betsy to get more closely acquainted with Alexei, whom she had not seen since that memorable dinner. It seemed they had not liked each other very much; at least Alexei never came back to Priluchino, and Liza went to her room each time Ivan Petrovich honored them with a visit.
“But,” thought Grigory Ivanovich, “if Alexei came here every day, Betsy would be bound to fall in love with him. That’s in the nature of things. Time puts everything right.”
Ivan Petrovich was less worried about the success of his intentions. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe, and, after a brief silence, said:
“Why is it, Alyosha, that you haven’t mentioned military service for so long now? Or perhaps the hussar uniform no longer tempts you!…”
“No, papa,” Alexei replied respectfully. “I see it is not your wish that I join the hussars; it is my duty to obey you.”
“Very well,” replied Ivan Petrovich, “I see you are an obedient son. That is a comfort to me. Nor do I want to force you; I will not compel you to enter…government service…at once; but meanwhile I intend to get you married.”
“To whom, papa?” asked the amazed Alexei.
“To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovich. “Quite the bride, isn’t she?”
“I’m not thinking of marrying yet, papa.”
“You’re not thinking, so I’ve thought for you and thought well.”
“Say what you like, Liza Muromsky doesn’t please me at all.”
“She’ll please you later. Habit and love go hand in glove.”
“I don’t feel capable of making her happy.”
“Her happiness is not your worry. What? So this is how you respect the parental will? Very well!”
“As you please, I don’t want to marry and I won’t marry.”
“You’ll marry, or I’ll curse you, and—as God is holy!—I’ll sell the estate and squander the money, and you won’t get half a kopeck! I’ll give you three days to reflect, and meanwhile don’t you dare show your face to me.”
Alexei knew that once his father got something into his head, in Taras Skotinin’s words, even a nail couldn’t drive it out;11 but Alexei took after his papa, and it was just as hard to out-argue him. He went to his room and began to reflect on the limits of parental power, on Lizaveta Grigoryevna, on his father’s solemn promise to make a beggar of him, and finally on Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic notion of marrying a peasant girl and living by his own labors came to his head, and the more he thought about this decisive step, the more reasonable he found it. For some time their meetings in the grove had broken off on account of rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the clearest handwriting and the most frantic style, announced to her the ruin that threatened them, and at the same time offered her his hand. He at once took the letter to the post office, the hole in the tree, and lay down to sleep quite pleased with himself.
The next day Alexei, firm in his intention, went to Muromsky early in the morning to have a frank talk with him. He hoped to arouse his magnanimity and win him over to his side.
“Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” he asked, stopping his horse before the porch of the Priluchino castle.
“No, he’s not,” answered the servant. “Grigory Ivanovich went out early this morning.”
“How annoying!” thought Alexei. “Then is Lizaveta Grigoryevna at home, at least?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexei jumped off his horse, handed the bridle to the lackey, and went in without being announced.
“All will be decided,” he thought, approaching the drawing room. “I’ll talk it over with the girl herself.”
He went in…and was dumbfounded! Liza…no, Akulina, dear, swarthy Akulina, not in a sarafan, but in a white morning dress, was sitting by the window and reading his letter. She was so taken up with it that she did not hear him come in. Alexei could not hold back an exclamation of joy. Liza gave a start, raised her head, cried out, and was about to run away. He rushed to hold her back.
“Akulina, Akulina!…”
Liza tried to free herself…
“Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur; mais êtes-vous fou?”*4 she kept saying, turning away.
“Akulina! My dear friend, Akulina!” he kept saying, kissing her hands. Miss Jackson, a witness to this scene, did not know what to think. Just then the door opened and Grigory Ivanovich came in.
“Aha!” said Muromsky. “It seems the matter’s already quite settled between you…”
My readers will spare me the unnecessary duty of describing the denouement.
End of The Tales of I. P. Belkin
* * *
*1 Our observation stands. Translator.
*2 “Stay, Sbogar, here…” Translator.
*3 In English in the original. Translator.
*4 “Leave me alone, sir; are you mad?” Translator.
The History of the Village of Goryukhino
If God sends me readers, they might be curious to know how it was that I decided to write The History of the Village of Goryukhino. For that I must go into a few preliminary details.
I was born of honorable and noble parents in the village of Goryukhino on April 1st in the year 1801, and received my primary education from our sexton. To this estimable man I owe the love of reading and of literary occupations in general that subsequently developed in me. My progress was slow but certain, for at the age of ten I already knew almos
t all that has remained till now in my memory, which was weak by nature and which, on account of my equally weak health, I was not allowed to burden unnecessarily.
The title of man of letters always seemed most enviable to me. My parents, estimable people, but simple and educated in an old-fashioned way, never read anything, and there were no books in the whole house except for the ABC they bought for me, some almanacs, and the New Grammar.1 Reading the Grammar was long the favorite of my exercises. I knew it by heart, and, despite that, I found new, unnoticed beauties in it every day. After General Plemyannikov, under whom my father had once served as adjutant, Kurganov seemed to me the greatest of men. I asked everyone about him, but, unfortunately, no one could satisfy my curiosity, no one had known him personally, and to all my questions they answered only that Kurganov wrote the New Grammar, which I already knew very well. The darkness of the unknown surrounded him like some ancient demigod; sometimes I even doubted the truth of his existence. His name seemed invented and the talk about him an empty myth waiting to be investigated by a new Niebuhr.2 However, he still haunted my imagination, I tried to attach some likeness to this mysterious person, and finally decided that he must resemble the zemstvo assessor Koryuchkin,3 a little old man with a red nose and flashing eyes.