Alexander Sergyevitch Pushkin was born in Moscow, June 7, 1799, at a
time when Russia was aswirl with various currents. Therefore, to gain
some clear vision of the distinguished service which he rendered the
literature of his native land, we must at least glance at the great
intellectual and political tides--they were largely coincident--which
swept Russia, first away from her own self-sufficient life, then toward
France, next in the direction of Germany, and finally out into a
national thought-channel of her own.
Pushkin is one of those writers who are big enough to have founded and
dominated an era, not solely because of his own preëminent genius, but
for the deeper reason that he represented in himself the culmination of
a series of national steps, each as definite as it was important.
For all the centuries of her life up to the nineteenth, Russia had
lived a separate existence from that of her great neighbors. In seeking
a cause for this condition, we must remember that the imperial bigness
of Russia, and her remote location, are not the only factors entering
into her segregate character. The _great_ factor is that Russia is
much more largely Asiatic in spirit than it is European. The typical
Slav of today is, temperamentally, though not in a precise sense
racially, a mixture of Tartar fierceness, old Slavonic stolidity, and
Hindu _Nirvana_, which, being translated into Russian, is essentially
Nihilism. Yet, today as for many centuries, the Slavic race is as truly
homogeneous as any can be.
During this long era of Russia’s ultra-exclusiveness, the polished
periods of Montaigne and the brilliant dramas of Corneille, Racine,
and Molière were delighting France, and Spenser, Milton, and Dryden
were doing rare things for English literature. At the same time,
nationally unconscious of all this, Russia was singing its epical and
ballad folk-songs, with only now and then a note of premeditated art
sounding forth. Here indeed was a true poetry _of_ the people--which,
as Dr. Gummere has pointed out, is a very different thing from that
pseudo-folk-poetry which is merely _about_ the people. Still, it
required influences from without to bring Russian literature to
artistic national expression.
The great autocratic rulers of Russia, and her leading nobles, at last
began to feel the allurement of the French, and Peter the Great even
travelled abroad, coming home imbued with new ideas for a progressive
nation. When a giant people, long content to be sufficient unto
itself, awakens to see that other ideals of life, other habits of
thought, other standards of conduct, have brought other great nations
to a brilliancy of position which its own solitary bigness has not
enabled it to attain, the first feeling is one of contempt for “those
others,” as the French would say. Later comes a naïve passion to
imitate. And finally, enter a whole train of foreign influences, good
and bad.
So it was with Russia after the powerful, rough, and somewhat
benevolently autocratic reign of Catherine II, at whose court Pushkin’s
father was a complacent noble. The French tongue, which even Pushkin
himself called “the language of Europe,” already prevailed at the
Russian court, and the literature of the country consisted chiefly of
imitations of the pseudo-classical French school, adaptations, or even
translations, from other languages, and here and there a struggling
voice which lifted itself with difficulty above the imitative clack.
All three of these types Catherine herself fostered--intermittently,
though still with some success.
But the alarming revolutionary ideas bruited from France, and the
Napoleonic campaign against Russia, caused a powerful revulsion of
feeling toward Germany and away from France. In Germany, however,
Young Russia met the same humanistic tendencies and passion for free
thought with which France had been gradually impregnating the empire of
the Slavs. Add to this the influence of Byron’s poetry, now stirring
Europe, and we have the external forces which drove Russia to look
at her own self with honest eyes--forces which at length found their
literary climax in Pushkin’s giving to his native land a literature
which was of the Russians, for the Russians, and by a Russian--a
literature born of the Russian spirit, breathing her ideals, speaking
her marvellously expressive tongue in new combinations of beauty, and
set against a background of her soil and her cities.
A further remarkable influence was operating to prepare both Russia
and Pushkin for the work of new creation: in the hands of Zhukovski
and others who immediately preceded our author, the Russian language
began suddenly to assume a flexibility and richness which, as I have
intimated, were destined to be still more greatly enlarged by the gifts
of Pushkin.
The author-to-be wasted no time beginning his career. Even at the
age of ten, while an unstudious but omnivorously reading school-boy,
he made deft imitations of French verse and the French drama, while
at twelve he knew four or five languages and was reading Rousseau,
Voltaire, and Molière with avidity. At this age the lad became a pupil
in the College Tsarskoïé-Siélo, in 1811, the year of its founding by
Alexander I. But while he absorbed enough to cause his wild genius to
flourish, he was incorrigible, and always in hot-water--except among
his comrades, by whom his dash, impudence, and wit made him to be both
admired and feared.
When Pushkin was only fifteen, the _European Messenger_ published
anonymously a series of clever but obscene Russian verses in the style
of Ossian and Parny. The name of the author soon leaked out, however,
and when the following year the boy read on a public speech-day a
suitable poem entitled “Recollections of Tsarskoïé-Siélo,” he was
hailed as a gifted poet. The poetic form was miraculous--the thought,
just about what a precocious lad could produce.
In 1817 Pushkin was graduated, and entered the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. At once he was lionized by literary society, and became the
leader of a brilliant but rakish clique--the story of their escapades
would read like a tenderloin police-docket. At length, in 1820, the
year when “Ruslan and Lyudmila,” his first great poem, was published,
he committed some folly too outrageous to be condoned--probably an
especially licentious expression in verse--and was banished to South
Russia, where, wandering among the Caucasus ranges which color all
his later work, and living near the romantic Black Sea, he remained
for several years; until, in 1824, his banishment was commuted to
confinement to his father’s estates. In a literary way this date marks
the beginning of his new era, for he now began to bring into final form
the master-poem, “Eugene Onyegin,” on which he had been working for
several years--of which more presently.
Some--why, I cannot conceive--have attributed Pushkin’s ungovernable
disposition to the mixed blood that flowed in his veins, as was the
case with the elder Dumas. Pushkin’s maternal great-grandfather was
that Abram Hannibal, “Peter the Great’s Arab favorite,” who was really
an Abyssinian slave. The African youth was educated in France by his
royal master and godfather, later admitted to his friendship, and
eventually married to a Russian lady. Their son became a great Russian
general. The poet himself bore unmistakable marks of his ancestry in
his short curly hair and thick, sensuous lips, though his eyes were
blue, his skin fair, and his hair light in hue.
During these earlier years of his short life, Pushkin was profoundly
influenced by Byron, and even was willing to be called “the Russian
Byron.” Indeed, his license-loving and liberty-adoring nature was
quite like that of his English model. This influence is seen not only
in his poetic methods, but in his teachings and in his themes. The
poem “Poltava,” published in 1829, takes Mazeppa for its hero, and his
poetic masterpiece, “Eugene Onyegin,” published in 1828, is really
Don-Juanesque. Nor is it difficult to trace other evidences of this
frankly admiring spirit.
Singularly enough, “Eugene Onyegin” (which Tschaikovsky has made
the subject of an opera) is at once in the style of Byron (somewhat
resembling his “Beppo”), while in theme, locale, and handling it throws
off the trammels of Byronism, and indeed all foreignism, and becomes
the first really great work of modern Russian literature. Whatever the
original debt Pushkin owed to the author of “Don Juan,” in this and
later work he strikes out with all the self-confidence and attainment
of an original genius. So tender, so pathetic, yet so humorous, so full
of human understanding, so informed with the spirit of contemporary
Russian society, is this remarkable work, that its author achieved
immortality in its writing. Thus did the years of exile on the paternal
manor bear notable fruit.
Because this creation sets so lasting an initial mark, by establishing
Russian literature upon a basis of art, it seems worth while to recite
its argument here in full.
Eugene Onyegin is a “Byronic young society man,” who is recalled to
the country from his city dissipations by his father’s death. Here he
lives, for a long time avoiding all contact with his less cultivated
neighbors. A young poet, Vladimir Lensky, the son of one of these
manorial families, returns from abroad, and a congenial friendship
springs up between the young men. Lensky, who is betrothed to Olga
Larin, persuades Onyegin to call upon her family with him. Tatyana,
Olga’s elder sister, at once falls in love with Onyegin, and writes him
a letter of frank avowal--one of the most famous passages of the drama.
But Onyegin gently turns her aside by assuming the rôle of a fatherly
adviser, and the incident remains unknown to all except themselves
and Tatyana’s old nurse. Soon afterwards, Lensky induces Onyegin to
go to the Larins’ on the occasion of Tatyana’s name-day festival. For
the sake of preventing gossip in a district given over to small talk,
Onyegin yields and goes. At table, by the innocent scheming of her
family, he is placed opposite to Tatyana, and finds the situation so
embarrassing that he determines to revenge himself on the innocent
Lensky by flirting with Olga, who is shortly to become Lensky’s wife.
During the evening, Olga, pretty but weak-natured, accepts Onyegin’s
attentions with such interest that Lensky challenges him. Heart-sick
at the results of his momentary unjust anger, Onyegin would gladly
apologize, were it not that Lensky has chosen as his representative
an old fire-eater and tattler who would misrepresent his motives and
perhaps compromise Tatyana. Therefore, he accepts--and Lensky falls.
Onyegin then goes off on his travels. Olga soon consoles herself with
a handsome officer, and after their marriage goes with him to his
regiment. Tatyana, however, who is of a reserved, intense character,
pines, refuses all offers of marriage, and, by the advice of friends,
is finally taken to Moscow for the winter. There, as a wall-flower
at her first ball, she captivates a prince from St. Petersburg--a
distinguished and socially important general. She follows her parents’
wishes and marries him. When Onyegin returns to the capital a few
years later, he finds, to his great astonishment, “that the little
country girl whom he has patronized, rejected, almost scorned, is
one of the great ladies of the court and society.” He falls madly
in love with her, in his turn, but she gives him not the slightest
sign of friendship. Driven to despair by this coldness, he writes her
three letters, but she does not reply. Then, entering her boudoir
unexpectedly, through the carelessness of her servants, he finds her in
tears, reading his letter. He again avows his love. She is obliged to
confess that she loves him still, but finally makes him understand that
she will be true to her kind and high-minded husband. Thus the drama
ends.
After the production of his masterpiece, followed a notable poetic
tragedy, “Boris Godunov,” in which may be discerned the author’s
admiration for the methods of Shakespeare, to whom he turned, yet not
slavishly, after freeing himself from the overshadowing Byron.
It is inevitable that we should speculate upon the splendid work which
might have come from the pen of this greatest of Russian poets had he
not fallen in his prime. The story is sad and sordid enough. In 1831,
having been restored to imperial favor, he had married the beautiful
Natalya Nikolaevna Gontcharoff, and they plunged into society, loaded
with recognition by the court.
He had been married but five years when society began to gossip about
“the lovely Madame Pushkin” and Baron George Hekkeren-Dantes, the
natural son of the Dutch minister to Russia. Pushkin attached no blame
to his wife for the indiscretions of the infatuated young chevalier
of the Guards, but challenged him nevertheless. Dantes averted a
meeting by marrying Pushkin’s sister. Still the gossip persisted, and
eventually, being refused access to the Pushkin home, Dantes made his
persecutions so patent, and was so seconded by the elder Hekkeren,
that the poet challenged the father. The son intervened, adopted the
quarrel, and in a duel at St. Petersburg Pushkin was killed, January
29, 1837, being only thirty-eight years old.
The last six years of Pushkin’s life established his claim to greatness
not only as a poet and a dramatist, but also as a master of Russian
prose. We may not term him a novelist, but as a writer of prose tales
he set a new mark in the literature of his land. When we recall that
it was in the first years of that significant decade, 1830-1840,
that Poe, Balzac, and Mérimée perfected and brought to its modern
form the short-story, we shall realize what a great forward step was
being made in Russia at the very same time when Pushkin produced his
“Prose Tales.” His longer tales, “A Prisoner of the Caucasus” and
“The Captain’s Daughter,” exhibit little plot, but they are notable
impressionistic stories, full of rich and effective coloring.
Two of his shorter stories I outline, both on account of their
intrinsic interest and for the fact that they illustrate the romantic
vein which runs through all of Pushkin’s work. Else how could he ever
have turned to Byron? Gogol, a contemporary of Pushkin and in some
senses his successor, was the father of Russian realism. The two may be
said to be the joint parents of Russian fiction.
“The Queen of Spades” is like a “Weird Tale” by Hoffmann, or a
conception of Poe’s. It ranks as one of the world’s great short-stories.
At the house of a cavalry officer, several young Russians are gambling.
One of them asks Herman why he never plays. He replies, “Play interests
me greatly, but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessities of life for
uncertain superfluities.”
Tomsky says that he can understand Herman’s being economical, but
that he cannot understand why his own grandmother, the Countess Anna
Fedorovna, should not play, for, although she is eighty years of age,
she knows a secret which makes winning at faro certain. Tomsky then
goes on to relate how the old woman secured the secret from a friend
of hers in order to save her from the disastrous results of enormous
losses in cards. The secret consists of choosing three certain cards in
succession. This plan she followed, winning every time, and was soon
out of debt.
Being in need of funds, Herman is impressed with the story, and begins
to haunt the outside of the aged Countess’s home. In order to gain
admission and learn the secret, he contrives to flirt with Lisaveta
Ivanovna, the Countess’s ward, who at length arranges a way in which he
can gain admission to the house while the family are attending a ball.
He is to pass through the Countess’s apartments and await the girl in
her sitting-room, but instead of doing this the young officer secretes
himself in the apartments of the Countess. After she is in bed he
emerges and demands the names of the three cards, placing a pistol at
her brow, but assuring her that he means no harm if she will do as he
asks. She tremblingly tells him that it was only a jest, that there is
nothing in the report of her knowledge, but Herman insists, and after a
short time he grasps her arm roughly and is about to renew his threats
when he finds that she is dead.
Presently Herman makes his way to Lisaveta’s apartment, where he tells
her all. She realizes that she is not loved, and discerns the true
reason why the young man has sought her acquaintance. However, she
helps him to get out of the house safely.
The next night he drinks heavily and throws himself on his bed without
undressing. During the night he awakes with a start and sees looking
in at the window some one who quickly disappears. Presently he hears
the shuffling of loose slippers, the door of his room opens, and a
woman in white enters. As she comes close to his bed, the terrified man
recognizes the Countess. “I have come to you against my will,” she says
abruptly, “but I was commanded to grant your request. The trey, the
seven, and the ace are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse
after the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must
never play again.”
The phantom then turns and walks away.
The next night he enters a fashionable gambling club in St. Petersburg,
stakes forty thousand rubles, and wins a huge sum. The next night he
chooses a seven-spot and wins ninety-four thousand rubles.
The following evening he went again. His appearance was the
signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being
eager to watch the development of events. He selected his
card--an ace.
The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.
“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without
glancing at it.
“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.
Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had
selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe
his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a
mistake. As he stared at the card, it seemed to him that the
queen winked one eye at him mockingly.
“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid
terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass.
The cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on.
Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital
at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly
murmuring in a monotonous tone: “The trey, seven, ace! The
trey, seven, queen!”
“The Shot” is in a different vein, being a tale of singular dramatic
intensity. There is a legend that it is largely biographical, Pushkin
himself having coolly eaten cherries, as did the Count, while under
fire in a duel.
A group of military men stationed in the dull little town of N----
welcome to their society the one eligible civilian, a certain Silvio, a
taciturn man of thirty-five, who has retired from the Hussars. He lives
meagrely in a small house, where he frequently entertains the officers
with the best he has, which always includes plenty of champagne. The
walls of this house are punctured with bullet-holes, for its occupant
is a marvellous shot with the pistol. Regarding his past, he says
practically nothing, but every one feels that some tragic event has
stamped his career.
One day a new-comer among the officers quarrels with Silvio, and slaps
his face. Much to the surprise and disappointment of all, Silvio does
not challenge him, but accepts a lame explanation. It takes some time
for Silvio to rehabilitate himself with his friends, but his good
qualities at last accomplish this, except with one officer, who tells
the story.
One day Silvio, all excitement, announces that a change has come in his
affairs, and that he must leave N----. He packs his goods, and invites
the officers to a final feast. At its close he asks the narrator to
remain, and tells him this story, to explain why he avoided challenging
his offender.
Some years before, while serving in the Hussars, Silvio was known as a
great rake and an incorrigible duellist. His popularity waned, however,
with the advent of a brilliant young Count, of whom he soon became
jealous, and upon whom he fixed a quarrel. In the duel which followed,
the Count won the first shot, and pierced his adversary’s cap, but
showed such nonchalance--having coolly eaten cherries while standing
to receive Silvio’s shot--that the latter decided to relinquish his
chance until a later time. In all these years a favorable opportunity
had not come in which to make the Count show fear, and that was why
Silvio was not willing to risk his life by engaging in another duel,
even though he knew he was a remarkable shot: he was holding himself
for his revenge. And now his opening had come, for he had just learned
that the Count had married a beautiful young woman and was enjoying his
honeymoon.
The narrator never sees Silvio again, but some time after the latter
has left N----, the narrator goes back to his own native village, and
there meets Count and Countess B----. At their first meeting their
visitor is interested by seeing two bullet-holes which have pierced
a painting. It transpires that Count B---- is the very one with whom
Silvio fought his duel. The Count then narrates the sequel.
Shortly after their marriage, the Count returned with his bride to
his estates, where he was startled to find Silvio, claiming the right
of the shot which was his due. The Count gallantly yielded to him and
stood up in his drawing-room, but Silvio a second time declined to
shoot, and proposed that they again draw for the first shot. The Count
won, and shot over Silvio’s head, making one of the two bullet-holes.
At this juncture the Countess came in and flung herself at Silvio’s
feet. In shame, the Count made her rise, and Silvio prepared to take
his shot, whereupon the Countess threw herself upon her husband’s
breast. As he saw Silvio point his weapon at them both, at last the
Count showed terror, although not for himself. Being satisfied with
this exhibition of fear, natural though it was, Silvio declined to
shoot. As he left the room, he turned, however, and, almost without
looking, took a parting shot at the painting, which he penetrated with
a bullet-hole precisely below that which had been made by the Count’s
bullet. And so this strange man passed out of their lives.
* * * * *
“The Snow-Storm” seems to me to be Pushkin’s greatest short-story. It
has a well-defined plot, a surprising dénouement, the action marches
on to its climax, and both local color and characterization are of a
high order. It is especially remarkable for its having been produced
at the very opening of the decade which gave to the world the modern
short-story.
THE SNOW-STORM
_By Alexander Pushkin_
Towards the close of the year 1811, during that very memorable epoch,
there lived in the village of Nenaradova the good Gavrila Gavrilovich
R----. He was famed throughout the district for his hospitality and
good-nature; and his neighbors continually kept coming to his house
to partake of food and drink, and to play the game of Boston at five
kopecks with his wife, Prascovia Petrovna. Others came, however,
to inspect their daughter, Maria Gavrilovna, a graceful, pale,
seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich match, and many a
visitor had had designs upon her for himself or for his son.
Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels, and consequently
was in love. The object chosen by her for her love was a poor army
lieutenant, who was now on a leave of absence in his native village.
It goes without saying that the young man returned her passion. The
parents of the girl, however, having noted the mutual inclinations of
the pair, forbade their daughter even to think of him; while him they
received even worse than if he were a dismissed petty official.
Our lovers exchanged notes, and saw each other every day, alone, in
the pine wood or in the old chapel. There they vowed to each other
eternal love, bewailed their fate, and formed all sorts of plans.
Their discussions carried on in this way naturally brought them to the
following conclusion: “If we can’t exist without each other, and the
will of stern parents stands in the way of our felicity, why shouldn’t
we manage without them?” Needless to say, this happy idea originated
in the mind of the young man, and that it appealed strongly to the
romantic imagination of Maria Gavrilovna.
Winter came on, and interrupted their meetings. This, however, only
served to quicken the correspondence. Vladimir Nikolaevich, in every
letter, entreated her to give herself to him, to wed secretly, to
remain in concealment a while, and then to throw themselves at the feet
of the parents, who, to be sure, would be touched finally by the heroic
constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and undoubtedly say to them,
“Children, come to our arms!”
Maria Gavrilovna hesitated a long time; and several of the plans to run
away she rejected. At last she consented. On the appointed day she was
to do without supper and escape to her room on the plea of a headache.
Her maid was in the plot. The two of them were to make their way into
the garden by means of the back-stairs. Outside the garden a sledge
would stand ready to take them straight to the church of Jadrino, a
village five versts away, where Vladimir would await them.
On the eve of the decisive day Maria Gavrilovna hardly slept at all.
She spent the night in packing some linens and dresses to take with
her; and wrote a long letter to a sentimental girl friend, and another
to her parents. She bade them farewell in the most touching terms,
and excused her action on grounds of a terrible overruling passion,
concluding by saying that she should consider it the most blessed
moment of her life when she should be permitted to throw herself at
the feet of her beloved parents. Having sealed both letters with a
Toula seal, on which were engraved two flaming hearts, accompanied by
an appropriate inscription, she threw herself on her bed just before
daybreak, and dozed off.
Terrible dreams, however, kept crowding upon her and constantly
awakened her. Now it seemed to her that the very moment she entered
the sledge for her journey her father stopped her and with a most
painful rapidity dragged her over the snow and cast her into a dark,
bottomless abyss.... Then she flew about precipitately, with an
indescribable oppression of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on
the grass, pale, bleeding. Dying, he entreated her in shrill voice to
make haste to wed him.... Still other shapeless, incoherent visions
continued to pass before her. In the end she arose, looking more pale
than usual, with a real headache. Her father and her mother noticed her
agitation; their gentle solicitude and their ceaseless inquiries, “What
is the matter with you, Masha? Are you ill, Masha?” rent her heart. She
tried to quiet them, to appear cheerful, but she could not.
The evening came. The thought that this was the last day she would
spend in the midst of her family oppressed her. She scarcely could
breathe. Secretly she was bidding each one a separate farewell, as well
as all the objects which surrounded her. When the supper was announced
her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she said that she could
not eat, and wished her father and her mother good-night. They kissed
her and, according to their custom, also blessed her.
Once in her own room, she threw herself into the arm-chair and wept.
Her maid tried to prevail upon her to be calm and to take courage;
everything was ready--in another half-hour Masha would leave forever
her paternal home, her room, her quiet, girlish life....
Outdoors, the snow was falling; the wind howled, the shutters rattled
and shook; all seemed to her to assume the aspect of a warning, the sad
presaging of disaster. Soon everything in the house grew quiet and sank
into slumber.
Masha wrapped a shawl around her, put on a long, warm mantle, took into
her hands her treasure-casket, and walked down the back-stairs. The
maid followed her with two bundles. They entered the garden. The storm
did not subside; the wind blew in their faces, as if it sought to stop
the young culprit. With the greatest difficulty, they reached the end
of the garden. On the road a sledge awaited them. The chilled horses
would not stand still, and Vladimir’s coachman was restlessly walking
in front of them, trying to quiet them. He assisted the young lady
and her maid into the sledge, and in disposing of the bundles and the
casket, then seized the reins, and off the horses flew.
Having thus committed the maiden to the care of fate and the skill of
Tereshka, the coachman, we will now return to our young lover.
The whole day long Vladimir spent in driving about. His first morning
errand was to the priest at Jadrino--it was with the greatest
difficulty that he prevailed upon him; he then journeyed to find
witnesses from among the neighboring land-owners. The first to whom he
appeared was the retired, forty-year-old cornet Dravin, who consented
with alacrity. This adventure, he assured Vladimir, recalled to him
his earlier days and his pranks in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir
to remain for dinner, and assured him that there would be no trouble
about the other two witnesses. Indeed, immediately after dinner there
appeared Surveyor Schmidt, with mustaches and spurs, and the son of
the chief of police, a youngster of sixteen years, who had only lately
joined the Uhlans. Not only were they in sympathy with Vladimir’s
plans, but they even swore to lay down their lives for him. Vladimir
embraced them joyously, and returned home to get everything ready.
It had already been dark for some time. He sent off the trusty
Tereshka to Nenaradova with his troika, after giving him most exact
instructions; while for himself he ordered a small sledge with a
single horse. He left alone for Jadrino, where two hours hence Maria
Gavrilovna was also due to arrive. The road was familiar to him; and
altogether it meant a twenty-minute journey.
Hardly, however, had Vladimir reached the open field, when the wind
rose; immediately it developed into a blinding snow-storm, so that he
could not see anything. In a remarkably short time the road became
hidden under the snow, while the surrounding landmarks were obliterated
in the nebulous, yellowish haze through which flew about great white
flakes of snow. The sky and the earth merged into one. Vladimir found
himself in the field, and it was in vain that he tried to find the road
again. The horse advanced at random, and now drove into a snowdrift
and now fell into a hole--the sledge kept on upsetting. Vladimir made
an effort not to lose the right direction. It seemed strange to him,
however, that after a half-hour’s driving he had not yet reached the
Jadrino wood.
Another ten minutes passed--still no wood in sight. Vladimir drove
across a field which was intersected by deep ditches. The storm did not
abate, the sky did not clear. The horse began to grow tired, and the
perspiration rolled down his body in large drops, notwithstanding the
fact that he was being half-buried in snow almost continually.
At last Vladimir concluded that he was not driving in the right
direction. He stopped, tried to recall, to consider, and decided that
he ought to take to the right; which he did. His horse made way
slowly. He had been on the road more than an hour. Jadrino could not
be very distant. On and on he drove his horse, but there seemed to be
no end to the field--only snowdrifts and ditches. The sledge kept on
upsetting, he kept on righting it. Time passed; Vladimir began to fret.
At last a dark shape seemed to loom up ahead. Vladimir jerked the reins
in that direction. On closer approach, he saw it was a wood. “Thank
God!” he thought, “now it is near.” He kept going along the edge of the
wood, hoping to strike the familiar road, or to make a detour of the
forest. Jadrino, he knew, was situated somewhere behind it. He soon
found the road, and drove into the darkness among the trees, which
stood in their winter nakedness. The wind could not make much headway
here; the road was smooth; the horse braced itself, and Vladimir
regained confidence.
On and on he continued his journey--and still no Jadrino in sight;
there was no end to the road. In consternation, Vladimir became aware
that he had entered an unfamiliar forest. Despair seized hold of him.
He lashed the horse; the poor animal went off at a canter, but soon
slowed down, and after a quarter of an hour relapsed into a walk,
despite all exertions on the part of the unhappy Vladimir.
Gradually the wood grew less dense, and Vladimir came out again into
the open. No Jadrino in sight. It must have been about midnight. Tears
gushed from his eyes; he drove about at random. The storm quieted down,
the clouds dispersed; before him lay a valley, covered with a white,
undulating carpet. The night was sufficiently clear. He discerned
not far off a tiny village, consisting of some four or five houses.
Vladimir drove towards it. At the very first cottage he sprang out of
his sledge, ran to the window, and began to knock. In a few minutes the
wooden shutter went up, and an old man stuck out his gray beard.
“What do you want?”
“Is Jadrino far from here?”
“Is Jadrino far from here!”
“Yes, yes, is it far?”
“Not far--ten versts or so!”
At this answer Vladimir caught hold of his hair and stood motionless,
like one condemned to death.
“And where do you come from?” continued the old man.
Vladimir had no courage left to reply to the question.
“Can you, old man,” he asked, “procure me horses to take me to
Jadrino?”
“How should we have horses?” answered the peasant.
“Can you at least give me a guide? I will pay as much as he wants.”
“Wait,” said the old man, lowering the shutter. “I’ll send my son out
to you. He’ll guide you.”
Vladimir waited. A minute had not elapsed when he began knocking again.
The shutter went up again, the same gray beard made its appearance.
“What do you want?”
“Well, where’s your son?”
“He’ll be out soon. He’s putting on his boots. Are you cold? Step in
and warm yourself.”
“Thanks, send your son out quickly.”
The gate creaked; a lad came out with a heavy stick in hand. He went
in front, now indicating, now searching for, the road hidden under
snowdrifts.
“What hour is it?” Vladimir asked him.
“It will soon be daylight,” replied the young peasant.
Vladimir spoke not another word.
The cocks were crowing and it was already light when they reached
Jadrino. The church was closed. Vladimir paid his guide and drove to
the priest’s house. His troika was not there. What news awaited him!
Let us return, however, to the good land-owners of Nenaradova and see
what is passing there.
Nothing out of the way.
The old people had had their sleep and had gone to the
dining-room--Gavrila Gavrilovich in his night-cap and flannel jacket,
Prascovia Petrovna in her dressing-gown of wadding. The samovar
was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent the maid to ask Maria
Gavrilovna about her health and how she had rested. The maid returned,
announcing that the young lady had slept badly, but was feeling better
now, and that presently she would be in to breakfast. Very shortly, in
fact, the door opened, and Maria Gavrilovna came forward to greet her
papa and mamma.
“How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.
“Better, Papa,” replied Masha.
“Masha, you must have got a headache yesterday from the fumes of the
heater,” said Prascovia Petrovna.
“Perhaps so, Mamma,” answered Masha.
The day passed happily, but by night Masha was taken ill. A doctor was
sent for from town. He arrived towards evening and found the sick girl
in delirium. She developed high fever, and for two weeks the poor girl
was at death’s door.
No one in the house knew what had happened. The letters written by her
on the eve of her planned elopement were burned; her maid, fearing the
wrath of her master, had said a word to no one. The priest, the retired
cornet, the mustached surveyor, and the little Uhlan were quiet, and
with good reason. Tereshka, the driver, never uttered a superfluous
word, even when in drink. The secret was thus well kept by more than
a half-dozen conspirators. Maria Gavrilovna herself gave away her
secret while in delirium. Her words, however, were so incoherent that
her mother, who never left her bedside, could only gather that her
daughter was passionately in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich, and that
this love was apparently the cause of her illness. She held counsel
with her husband, and with some of the neighbors, and in the end they
unanimously decided that there was no getting around fate, that poverty
was no crime, that the man was the thing--not wealth, and so on. Such
moral discourses are astonishingly useful in those instances when we
are at a loss to find justification for our actions.
In the meantime, the young lady was returning to health. Vladimir
hadn’t been seen for a long time in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich.
He had been frightened away by the previous receptions accorded him.
It was proposed to send for him and to announce to him his unawaited
good fortune: the consent to marriage. Imagine the amazement of the
proprietors of Nenaradova when in answer to their proposal they
received from him a half-insane letter! He informed them that his foot
would never be set in their house, and implored them to forget an
unhappy man, for whom death alone remained as an alleviation. In the
course of a few days it was learned that Vladimir had joined the army.
This was in the year 1812.
For a long time they dared not tell this to the convalescent Masha. She
never spoke about Vladimir. Several months having passed, she one day
discovered his name among the distinguished and the dangerously wounded
at the battle of Borodino, whereupon she fainted, and it was feared
that high fever would recur. God be thanked, however, the fainting fit
had no serious consequences.
Another sorrow visited her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her
heiress to all his estates. But her wealth did not comfort her; she
free-heartedly shared the affliction of the poor Prascovia Petrovna,
and vowed never to part with her. Together they left Nenaradova, the
place of their sorrowful memories, and went to live on one of their
estates.
Here also many suitors paid court to the lovely heiress; but she gave
none the slightest hope. Her mother occasionally tried to persuade her
to choose a mate; in answer, Maria Gavrilovna would only shake her head
and grow thoughtful. Vladimir no longer existed; he had died in Moscow,
on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory Masha held sacred; at
least, she kept all that could remind her of him: there were the books
he had read, his drawings, his notes, and poems he had copied for her.
The neighbors, who knew her story, wondered at her constancy, and with
great curiosity awaited the hero who would in the end triumph over the
melancholy fidelity of this virgin Artemis.
In the meantime, the war ended with glory. Our regiments were returning
from alien soil. The nation greeted them with joy. The musicians played
the victorious songs, “_Vive Henri-Quatre_,” Tyrolese waltzes, the airs
from “Joconda.” Some of the officers who had entered upon the campaign
mere lads were returning from the battles grown into manhood, decorated
with crosses. The soldiers talked gaily among themselves, mingling
constantly with their speech German and French words. It was a
never-to-be-forgotten time! A time of glory and joy! How strongly beat
the Russian heart at the word “fatherland”! How sweet were the tears at
meeting again! How harmoniously did we combine the feeling of national
pride with love for the Czar! And for him--what a moment!
Women--the Russian women--were in those days incomparable! Their usual
coldness vanished. Their rapture was really intoxicating when, upon
meeting the victors, they cried, “Hurrah!” and threw their caps into
the air....
Who from among the officers of that day does not confess that to the
Russian women he owed his best, most valued reward?... During that
brilliant time Maria Gavrilovna lived with her mother in the ----
Province, and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of
the troops. In the country districts and in the villages the general
enthusiasm was perhaps even stronger. The appearance of an officer in
such places was always the occasion of real triumph to him, and the
lover in the frock coat had a hard time of it in his presence.
We have already stated that, notwithstanding her coldness, Maria
Gavrilovna, as before, was surrounded by suitors. All of them,
however, were compelled to step aside when there appeared one day in
her castle the wounded Colonel of the Hussars, Bourmin, with the cross
of St. George in his buttonhole, and with “an interesting pallor” on
his face, to use the words of the young ladies of the place. He seemed
to be about twenty-six years old. He arrived, on leave, at his estate,
which neighbored upon that of Maria Gavrilovna. Maria showed him
distinction. Before him her usual pensiveness vanished. It cannot be
said that she played the coquette with him; but the poet, making note
of her conduct, would have said:
_Se amor non è, che dunche?..._
Bourmin was indeed a most charming young man. He possessed precisely
that sense which is pleasing to women--a sense of decorum and
alertness, without pretensions; and an easy humor. His behavior towards
Maria Gavrilovna was simple and free; but, no matter what she said
or did, his soul and his glances followed her. He seemed a quiet,
unassuming sort of man, though rumor had it that he had been quite a
rake in his day, which did not, however, injure him in the eyes of
Maria Gavrilovna, who (like young ladies generally) was most willing
to overlook little larks which indicated boldness and a spirited
character.
But above all (more than his gentleness, more than his agreeable
speech, more than his interesting pallor, more than his bandaged arm)
the silence of the young Hussar stirred her curiosity and imagination.
She could not but feel conscious that she pleased him immensely;
undoubtedly, he too, with his keenness of perception, and experience,
had noted her preference for him; and she could not explain why she
had not yet seen him at her feet and had not heard his declaration.
What restrained him? Was it the timidity which is inseparable from true
love, or pride, or the coquetry of a shrewd wooer? This was a riddle to
her. Having reflected on the matter, she concluded that timidity was
the sole reason; and this decided her to encourage him with greater
attention, and, if the circumstances permitted it, even tenderness. She
anticipated the most surprising dénouement; and with impatience awaited
a romantic explanation. A secret, whatever its nature may be, is always
oppressive to the feminine heart. Her aggressive tactics had the
desired result; at least, Bourmin fell into such a pensive mood, and
his dark eyes fixed themselves with such a fire upon Maria Gavrilovna,
that the decisive moment seemed close at hand. The neighbors talked of
the forthcoming marriage as of a thing settled, and the good Prascovia
Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had found at last a worthy mate.
The old mother was sitting one day in the drawing-room, playing
patience, when Bourmin entered and immediately inquired after Maria
Gavrilovna.
“She is in the garden,” answered the old lady. “You go out to her, and
I’ll await you here.”
Bourmin went into the garden, and the old lady crossed herself and
thought, “The matter will be settled today.”
At the pond, under a willow, Bourmin found Maria Gavrilovna, dressed
in white, looking like a real heroine of a novel. After the first
questions, Maria Gavrilovna purposely refrained from sustaining
the conversation, intending in this manner to create a mutual
embarrassment, from which it was possible to free oneself only by an
instant and decisive explanation. That was, in fact, what happened.
Bourmin, feeling the embarrassment of his position, said that he had
long sought an opportunity to reveal his heart to her, and requested a
moment’s attention from her. Maria Gavrilovna closed the book and cast
down her eyes as a sign of assent.
“I love you,” said Bourmin. “I love you passionately.” (Maria
Gavrilovna blushed and inclined her head even lower.) “I have behaved
imprudently in yielding to the sweet pleasure of seeing and hearing
you every day.” (Maria Gavrilovna recalled the first letter of St.
Preux.[1]) “It is too late now to resist my fate: the mere recollection
of you, your lovely, incomparable image, shall be the torment and
consolation of my life. It is still left to me, however, to execute a
weighty responsibility, to reveal to you a terrible secret which will
raise between us an insurmountable barrier.”
“It has always existed,” interrupted Maria Gavrilovna, in an excited
manner. “I could never be your wife.”
“I know,” he answered quietly. “I know that you once loved; and that he
died, and that you had mourned for three years.... My good, adorable
Maria Gavrilovna! Please don’t deprive me of my last consolation:
the thought that you would have consented to make my happiness
if----Please, not a word--for God’s sake, not a word! You torture me.
Yes, I know it, that you would have been willing to become mine, but
I--I am a most unhappy creature.... I am already married!”
Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in amazement.
“Yes, I am married,” continued Bourmin; “and this is the fourth year
of my marriage, and I don’t know--who my wife is, where she is, or
whether I shall ever see her.”
“What are you saying?” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna. “How strange! But
continue--I also have something to tell--do me the kindness, continue!”
“In the beginning of the year 1812,” resumed Bourmin, “I was making
haste to rejoin my regiment at Wilna. Having arrived late one night at
a station, I ordered horses to be harnessed immediately, when suddenly
a terrible snow-storm broke out, and the station-master and the
drivers advised me to wait. At first I agreed, but an incomprehensible
restlessness took possession of me; it seemed to me as if some one
were prodding me on. The storm, however, showed no signs of abatement.
I could stand it no longer, ordered the horses to be harnessed, and
proceeded on my journey in the very height of the storm. The driver
took a notion into his head to drive along the river, which would
shorten the journey by three versts. The banks were buried under
snowdrifts; we drove past the place where we should have turned into
the road, and so chance took us into strange parts. The storm did
not quiet down. I saw a small light in the distance, and asked to be
driven there. We arrived in a village; there was light in the wooden
church. The church was open; within the outside enclosure stood
several sledges; people could be seen walking about on the porch of the
church. ‘This way! This way!’ cried a number of voices. I ordered my
man to drive up closer. ‘What made you so late, pray?’ some one said
to me. ‘The bride has fainted; the priest doesn’t know what to do; we
were just getting ready to go home. Come quickly!’ Silently I sprang
out of my sledge and entered the church, which was but dimly lighted by
two or three candles. The girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner
of the church; another was rubbing her temples. ‘Thank God,’ said the
latter, ‘you have made up your mind to come! You have almost killed
her!’ The old priest approached me with the question, ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Begin, begin, Father,’ I replied absently. The girl was raised on her
feet. She seemed to me not at all bad-looking .... An incomprehensible,
unforgivable heedlessness .... I stood beside her before the pulpit;
the priest made haste; three men and the maid supported the bride, and
were giving her all their attention. We were married. ‘Now kiss each
other,’ they said to us. My wife turned towards me her pale face. I
made a movement to kiss her .... She cried out, ‘Oh, it is not he, not
he!’ and fainted away. The witnesses directed on me their frightened
eyes. I turned round and left the church without the slightest
interference, threw myself into my sledge, and cried out, ‘Let her go!’”
“My God!” cried out Maria Gavrilovna. “And you don’t know what became
of your poor wife?”
“I don’t know,” answered Bourmin. “I even don’t know the name of the
village where I was married. I can’t remember by what station I went.
At that time I attached so little importance to my wicked lark, that,
after leaving the church, I slept soundly and awakened only next
morning, having reached by that time the third station. My servant, who
was then with me, died in the campaign, so that I haven’t the slightest
hope of finding her upon whom I played such a horrible joke, and who
now is so terribly avenged.”
“My God! My God!” said Maria Gavrilovna, grasping his hand. “So, then,
it was you! And you do not recognize me?”
Bourmin became pale ... and threw himself at her feet ....