Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings

by Alexander Pushkin

  The east was filled with the glow of dawn, and golden ranks of clouds seemed to be awaiting the sun, like courtiers awaiting their sovereign. The clear sky, the morning freshness, the dew, the gentle breeze and the singing of the birds filled Liza’s heart with childlike gaiety. The fear that she might meet someone she knew made her fly along, it seemed, rather than walk. As she approached the grove on the boundary of her father’s estate, Liza walked more slowly. Here she was to wait for Aleksey. Her heart beat violently and she knew not why. But the principal charm of the pranks of our youth lies in the sense of danger that accompanies them. Liza entered the dark grove. She was welcomed by the deep, broken murmuring of the trees, and her gaiety vanished; gradually she abandoned herself to blissful reverie. She was thinking… but who can accurately determine what a seventeen-year-old girl can be thinking about when she is all alone, in a grove, between five and six o’clock on a spring morning? And so, lost in thought, she walked along the path, which was shaded on either side by tall trees, when suddenly a handsome setter ran up to her barking. Liza cried out in fear. But at that moment a voice rang out: ‘Tout beau, Sbogar, ici…’,11 and a young hunter appeared from behind a clump of bushes. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear,’ he told Liza, ‘my dog does not bite.’ Liza had already recovered from her fright and immediately took full advantage of the situation. ‘But, sir,’ she said, assuming a half frightened, half timid expression, ‘I’m afraid. He might rush at me again.’

  Meanwhile Aleksey (the reader will have recognized him) stared at the young peasant girl.

  ‘I shall go with you if you are afraid,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to walk by your side?’

  ‘Who’s stopping you?’ Liza replied. ‘A man is free to do as he likes – and it’s a public road.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Priluchino. I’m Vassily the blacksmith’s daughter. I’m going to pick mushrooms.’ (Liza was carrying a small bark basket on a piece of string.) ‘And you sir? Are you from Tugilovo?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Aleksey. ‘I’m the young master’s valet.’

  Aleksey wanted to put their relationship on an equal footing. But Liza looked at him and laughed.

  ‘You’re telling me fibs,’ she said. ‘I’m not such a fool as you take me for; I can see that you’re the young master himself.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Everything about you tells me.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, as if it’s impossible to tell a master from a servant. The way you dress is different, the way you talk is different and you don’t call your dog the way we do.’

  With every moment that passed Aleksey began to like Liza more and more. Being unaccustomed to standing on ceremony with pretty village girls, he tried to embrace her. But Liza drew back and suddenly assumed such a stern, cold expression that, although he was much amused, Aleksey did not attempt any further advances. ‘If you want us to stay good friends,’ she said solemnly, ‘then please be good enough not to forget yourself.’ ‘Who taught you to be so clever?’ asked Aleksey, laughing out loud. ‘Can it have been my friend Nastenka, your mistress’s maid? So that’s how enlightenment spreads these days!’

  Liza felt that she had begun to speak out of character and immediately acted the peasant girl again.

  ‘Do you really think,’ she said, ‘that I never visit the manor-house? I’ve seen and heard all sorts of things there, I have,’ she continued. ‘But I shall never get any mushrooms picked if I stay here chattering to you. Now you go your way, young sir, and I’ll go mine. If you don’t mind…’

  Liza wanted to go but Aleksey seized her by the hand.

  ‘What’s your name, my dear?’

  ‘Akulina,’ replied Liza, trying to free her fingers from Aleksey’s grasp. ‘Let me go, sir, it’s time I went home.’

  ‘Well, Akulina my friend, I shall most certainly visit your father, Vassily the blacksmith.’

  ‘What did you say?’ exclaimed Liza excitedly. ‘For Heaven’s sake, please don’t do that. If they were to find out at home that I’d been talking to a young gentleman, alone in a copse, I’d really be in trouble. My father Vassily the blacksmith would beat me to death, he would.’

  ‘But I really do want to see you again, whatever happens.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be coming here again for mushrooms.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, tomorrow perhaps.’

  ‘Dear Akulina. I would like to kiss you, but I dare not. Tomorrow then, at the same time?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘And you will not deceive me?’

  ‘I’ll not deceive you.’

  ‘Swear it.’

  ‘I swear by Holy Friday that I’ll come.’

  The young couple parted. Liza walked out of the copse, crossed the fields, stole into the garden and rushed headlong into the farm building where Nastya was waiting for her. There she changed out of her costume, absently answering her impatient confidante’s questions, after which she appeared in the drawing-room. The table was laid, breakfast was ready and Miss Jackson, already powdered and tightly laced so that she resembled a wine glass, was buttering thin slices of bread. Her father praised her for her early morning walk.

  ‘There’s nothing healthier,’ he said, ‘than getting up at dawn.’

  And he quoted several examples of human longevity, gleaned from English journals, remarking that everyone who had lived to be more than a hundred had abstained from vodka and risen at dawn, winter and summer. But Liza did not listen to him. In her mind she was running through all the circumstances of the meeting that morning, the whole of Akulina’s conversation with the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain did she try to convince herself that their conversation had not exceeded the bounds of propriety, that her prank would have no serious consequences – but her conscience spoke louder than her reason. The promise she had given for the following day troubled her more than anything else. She very nearly decided not to keep her solemn vow. But Aleksey, after waiting for her in vain, might then come to the village and seek out Vassily the blacksmith’s daughter, the real Akulina, a fat, pock-marked wench, and so he would find out about the thoughtless trick she had played on him. The very idea horrified Liza, and she decided to go to the grove next morning disguised as Akulina.

  For his part Aleksey was in raptures. All day long he thought only of his new acquaintance; the image of that dark-complexioned beauty haunted his imagination, even in his dreams.

  Dawn had barely broken when he was already dressed. Without even stopping to load his gun, he went off to the fields with his loyal Sbogar and hurried to the place of the promised rendezvous. About half an hour passed in unbearable waiting. At last he glimpsed a blue sarafan amongst the bushes, and he rushed to meet his charming Akulina. She smiled at his ecstatic gratitude; but Aleksey immediately noticed signs of dejection and anxiety on her face. He wanted to know the reason. Liza admitted that her behaviour struck her as frivolous, that she regretted it, that on this occasion she had not wanted to go back on her word, but this meeting would be the last, and she asked him to end a friendship which could lead to no good for either of them. All this, of course, was said in peasant speech; but such feelings and thoughts, so unusual in a simple peasant girl, startled Aleksey. He employed all his eloquence to deflect Akulina from her purpose. He assured her that his intentions were honourable, promised that he would never give her any cause for regret, to obey her in everything and entreated her not to deprive him of the joy of seeing her alone, if only every other day, or twice a week. He spoke the language of real passion and at that moment he was truly in love. Liza listened to him in silence.

  ‘Give me your word,’ she said at length, ‘that you will never go and look for me in the village, or enquire about me. Give me your word that you will not seek any meetings with me besides those that I myself will arrange.’

  Aleksey swore by Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile.
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  ‘I don’t need solemn vows,’ Liza said. ‘Your word is enough.’

  After this they chatted amicably as they strolled together through the wood, until Liza told him, ‘It’s time for me to go home.’

  They parted and when Aleksey was left on his own he just could not understand how a simple peasant girl could have succeeded in acquiring such real power over him in the course of two meetings. For him his relationship with Akulina had all the charm of novelty, and although the strange peasant girl’s demands seemed very severe, the thought of breaking his word never once entered his head. The fact was that Aleksey, despite his macabre ring, his mysterious correspondence and his air of gloomy disenchantment, was a fine, spirited young man with a good heart, capable of appreciating innocent pleasures.

  Were I to follow my own inclinations I should embark on a detailed description of the young people’s meetings, their growing mutual attraction and trust in each other, how they occupied themselves, their conversations. But I know that the majority of my readers would not share my pleasure. On the whole, such details are bound to appear excessive; therefore I shall omit them, with just a brief mention of the fact that before two months had gone by Aleksey was head over heels in love, and that Liza, although she did not show it so much, was equally smitten. Both were happy with the present and gave little thought to the future.

  The thought of indissoluble ties frequently flashed through their minds, but they never mentioned it to each other. The reason was clear: however deep Aleksey’s attachment to his dear Akulina, he was always conscious of the distance that separated him from the poor peasant girl, while Liza was aware of the hatred that existed between their fathers, and she dared not hope that they might be reconciled with one another. Moreover, her vanity was secretly aroused by the vague, romantic hope of finally seeing the heir to Tugilovo at the feet of the daughter of the Priluchino blacksmith. Suddenly an important event took place that threatened to change their mutual relations.

  One cold, bright morning (one of those mornings with which our Russian autumn is so abundantly blessed), Ivan Petrovich Berestov went for a ride on horseback, taking with him, in case he should need them, six greyhounds, a whipper-in and several stable-boys with rattles. At exactly the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the fine weather, ordered his bob-tailed mare to be saddled and trotted off to view his English-style domains. As he approached the wood he saw his neighbour proudly seated on his horse, wearing a Cossack jacket lined with fox-fur and waiting for a hare which his stable-boys were driving out of a clump of bushes with their shouts and rattles. Had Grigory Ivanovich been able to foresee this encounter he would certainly have turned in another direction; but he had come across Berestov so unexpectedly that he suddenly found himself no more than a pistol-shot away. There was nothing he could do. Being a civilized European, Muromsky rode up to his adversary and politely greeted him. Berestov replied with all the enthusiasm of a chained bear saluting the public on its keeper’s orders. At that moment the hare darted out of the wood and made for the open fields. Berestov and his whipper-in shouted at the tops of their voices, unleashed the greyhounds and galloped off in hot pursuit. Muromsky’s horse, which had never hunted, took fright and bolted. Muromsky, who claimed to be an excellent rider, gave it free rein and inwardly rejoiced at the incident that had freed him from such disagreeable company. But his horse, having reached a ditch it had not noticed before, suddenly shied and Muromsky was thrown from his saddle. Falling heavily on the frozen ground, he lay there cursing his bob-tailed mare which, as if coming to its senses, had stopped immediately it realized it was riderless. Ivan Petrovich galloped up to him to enquire if he had injured himself. In the meantime the whipper-in had secured the guilty horse and led it by the bridle. He helped Muromsky into the saddle and Berestov invited him to his house. Muromsky could not refuse the invitation, and thus Berestov returned home covered in glory, having caught a hare and brought back his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner-of-war.

  The neighbours conversed in most friendly fashion over breakfast. Muromsky asked Berestov to lend him a droshky since, he was bound to confess, he was in no state to return home on horseback because of his bruises. Berestov conducted him down the front steps, and Muromsky would not take his leave until he had obtained his word of honour that he would drive over next day (with Aleksey Ivanovich Berestov) to dine with him at Priluchino. Thus a long-standing and deep-rooted enmity was apparently terminated as the result of the skittishness of a bob-tailed mare.

  Liza ran out to greet Grigory Ivanovich. ‘What’s happened, papa?’ she asked in amazement. ‘Why are you limping? Where is your horse? Whose droshky is this?’

  ‘You’ll never guess, my dear,’ Grigory Ivanovich replied and he then related everything that had happened. Liza could not believe her ears. Without giving her time to collect herself, Grigory Ivanovich announced that both Berestovs would be coming to dine with him the following day.

  ‘What are you saying!’ she exclaimed, turning pale. ‘The Berestovs, father and son, dining with us tomorrow! No, papa, you do as you please, but on no account shall I show myself.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Have you taken leave of your senses?’ retorted her father. ‘Since when have you been so shy? Or do you nurture a hereditary hatred towards the Berestovs, like some romantic heroine? Now, enough of this silliness!’

  ‘No, papa, not for anything in the world, not for any treasures shall I appear before the Berestovs.’

  Grigory Ivanovich shrugged and did not argue any more with her. Knowing full well that he would gain nothing by contradicting her, he went to have a rest after that memorable ride.

  Liza went to her room and summoned Nastya. The two of them spent a long time discussing tomorrow’s visit. What would Aleksey think when, in a well-bred young lady, he discovered his Akulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct, her morals, her common sense? On the other hand, Liza dearly wanted to see what impression such an unexpected encounter would have on him… Suddenly an idea flashed through her mind. Immediately she communicated it to Nastya. Both were delighted with it, as if it were a godsend, and they decided to put it into action come what may.

  Next day at breakfast Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter whether it was still her intention to hide from the Berestovs.

  ‘Papa,’ replied Liza, ‘I shall receive them if you wish, but on one condition: however I may appear before them, whatever I may do, you will not scold me or show the least sign of surprise or displeasure.’

  ‘Up to your tricks again!’ laughed Grigory Ivanovich. ‘Oh, very well, very well; I agree. Do what you like, my dark-eyed mischievous child.’ With these words he kissed her forehead and Liza ran off to get herself ready.

  At exactly two o’clock a home-made carriage, drawn by six horses, entered the courtyard and drove around the rich green circle of the lawn. The elder Berestov climbed the steps with the help of Muromsky’s two liveried footmen. After him came his son, who had arrived on horseback, and together they entered the dining-room, where the table had already been laid. Muromsky greeted his neighbours with the utmost cordiality, suggested they inspect the garden and menagerie before dinner and led them along the carefully tended paths covered with sand. The elder Berestov inwardly regretted the time and effort expended on such useless fancies, but remained silent out of politeness. His son shared neither that thrifty landowner’s disapproval, nor the Anglomaniac’s enthusiasm, but impatiently awaited the appearance of the host’s daughter, of whom he had heard so much; and although his heart, as we know, was already engaged, a beautiful young woman would always lay claim to his imagination.

  Returning to the drawing-room, all three sat down. The old men recalled earlier times and related anecdotes of army days, while Aleksey reflected on the role he should play in Liza’s presence. He decided that an air of cold aloofness would be most appropriate in the circumstances and prepared himself accordingly. The door opened and he turned his head with such indifferen
ce, with such nonchalance that the heart of the most hardened coquette might have quaked. Unfortunately, instead of Liza it was the elderly Miss Jackson who entered, powdered, tightly corseted, eyes downcast, and with a small curtsey, and thus Aleksey’s splendid military manoeuvre was wasted. Barely had he succeeded in mustering his strength again when the door opened once more and this time Liza entered. Everyone stood up; her father was about to introduce her to his guests, when suddenly he stopped in his tracks and hurriedly bit his lip… Liza, his dark-complexioned Liza, was powdered up to the ears and more heavily made up than Miss Jackson herself; false curls, far fairer than her own hair, were fluffed out like the peruke of Louis XIV; her sleeves, à l’imbécile,12 stuck out like the hooped petticoats of Madame de Pompadour;13 her waist was tightly laced so that she resembled the letter ‘X’, and all her mother’s jewels that had not yet been pawned sparkled on her neck and ears. It was impossible for Aleksey to recognize his Akulina in that grotesquely dazzling young lady. His father kissed her hand and Aleksey followed suit; when his lips touched her little white fingers he had the impression that they were trembling. Meanwhile he managed to catch a glimpse of her little foot, intentionally thrust forward and embellished by the most coquettish of shoes one could imagine. This reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her attire. As for the paint and powder it must be admitted that, in his simplicity of heart, he had not noticed them at first, and he did not suspect them even later. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show surprise; but his daughter’s prank struck him as so amusing he could barely hold back his laughter. But that prim English governess was in no mood for laughter. She guessed that the powder and paint had been purloined from her dressing-table, and a deep flush of anger showed through the artificial pallor of her face. She cast fiery glances at the young mischief-maker who, postponing any explanation until another day, pretended not to notice them.