The foundation of Goryukhino and its original settlement are shrouded in mystery. According to vague legends, at one time Goryukhino was a wealthy and large village, all its inhabitants were prosperous, tithes were collected once a year and taken to some unknown person in several cart-loads. At that time everything was bought cheaply and sold expensively. There were no stewards then, village-elders took advantage of no one, the inhabitants did little work and lived in clover – even the shepherds wore boots as they tended their flocks. But we must not let ourselves be carried away by this charming picture. The idea of a golden age is common to all nations and demonstrates only that people are never content with the present and, from experience having little hope for the future, they embellish the irrevocable past with all the colours of their imagination. The truth, however, is as follows:
From earliest times the village of Goryukhino belonged to the distinguished Belkin family. But my ancestors, who owned many other estates, ignored this remote part of the country. Goryukhino paid little tribute and was administered by elders elected by the people at an assembly called the Council of Peasants.
But in the course of time the ancestral estates of the Belkins broke up and fell into decline. The impoverished grandchildren of the rich grandfather were unable to cast off their luxurious habits and demanded the full income that had been previously received, from an estate that had decreased to one-tenth of its former size. Menacing orders followed, one after the other. The village-elder read them out at the assembly; other leaders in the village delivered speeches, the people grew agitated, while the masters, instead of twofold tithes, received cunning excuses and humble complaints written on soiled paper and sealed with a half-copeck.
A dark cloud hung over Goryukhino, but no one gave any thought to it. In the final year of the rule of Trifon, the last elder to be chosen by the people, on the day of the patronal festival, when the entire populace was either noisily crowding around the House of Entertainment (known as pot-house in the vernacular), or wandering up and down the streets, embracing and loudly singing the songs of Arkhip the Bald, there drove into the village a wicker brichka drawn by a pair of half-dead nags; a Jew in rags was sitting on the box, while from the brichka a head with a peaked cap on it poked out and seemed to be looking with curiosity at the people who were making merry. The inhabitants greeted the brichka with laughter and crude taunts.
Note With the lapels of their jackets turned up, the crazy people mocked the Jewish coachman and exclaimed jeeringly, ‘Jew, Jew, go and eat a pig’s ear!’ – Chronicle of the Goryukhino Sexton.
But how amazed they were when the brichka stopped in the middle of the village and the visitor jumped out and called out in an imperious voice for Trifon the village-elder. This dignitary happened to be in the House of Entertainment, whence two elders respectfully escorted him, supporting him under the arms. The stranger, after giving him a menacing look, handed him a letter and ordered him to read it immediately. The elders of Goryukhino were not in the habit of reading anything for themselves. The village-elder could neither read nor write. So they sent for Avdey the clerk. They found him not far away, sleeping under a fence in an alley, and he was brought before the stranger. But either from the sudden shock or from some grim foreboding, he found the words of the letter, which was in fact clearly written, blurred and consequently he could not make them out. Cursing dreadfully, the stranger sent Trifon the village-elder and Avdey the clerk off to bed, postponed the reading of the letter until the next day and went into the steward’s cottage, the Jew following with his small trunk.
The people of Goryukhino watched this unusual event in mute astonishment, but soon the carriage, Jew and stranger were forgotten. The day finished noisily and merrily – and Goryukhino fell asleep, not suspecting what lay in store for it.
Next day, at sunrise, the inhabitants were awakened by a knocking at their windows and a summons to the Council of Peasants. One after the other the villagers appeared in the yard of the steward’s cottage, which served as a council meeting-place. Their eyes were bloodshot and bleary, their faces swollen; yawning and scratching themselves, they looked at the man in the peaked cap – now wearing an old blue tunic – who was solemnly standing on the front steps to the clerk’s hut, and they tried to recall those features that they thought they had seen before. Trifon the village-elder and Avdey the clerk were standing by him, hatless, each with an expression of servility and profound distress. ‘Is everyone here?’ asked the stranger. ‘Is everyone here?’ repeated the village-elder. ‘Every single one of us,’ replied the villagers. Then the village-elder announced that a document had been received from the squire and he ordered the clerk to read it out so that the whole assembly should hear.
Note The chronicler writes: ‘This dread document I copied at the house of Trifon the village-elder, and it is kept there in an icon-case, together with other memorials of his dominion over Goryukhino.’ I myself could not find the original of this curious letter.
Trifon Ivanov!
The bearer of this letter, my agent**, is travelling to my patrimonial village of Goryukhino in order to take charge of the administration of same. Immediately after his arrival he is to assemble all the peasants and announce my, their master’s, wishes, namely: the peasants are to obey the orders of my agent** as if they were my own, and to carry out whatever he may demand of them unquestioningly. In the event of their failing to do so,** is empowered to treat them with the utmost severity. It is their shameless disobedience, together with your roguish indulgence, Trifon Ivanov, that has compelled me to take these steps.
Signed NN.
And then, spreading out his legs like the letter ‘X’ and standing with arms akimbo,** delivered the following brief, compelling speech.
‘You had better watch out: don’t try and be clever with me. I know that you are a spoilt lot, and I can knock any nonsense out of your heads quicker than you can get over yesterday’s hangover.’ But no one was suffering from any hangover. The people of Goryukhino, as if thunderstruck, hung their heads and returned to their homes, horrified.
The Rule of the Steward**
** assumed the reins of government and proceeded to put his political system into practice; it is deserving of special scrutiny.
It was chiefly based on the following axiom:
The richer a peasant, the more spoilt he is; the poorer, the humbler he is. Consequently** strove towards maintaining humility on the estate, as the principal peasant virtue. He demanded a list of all the peasants and divided them into rich and poor.
1. Arrears of rent were allocated among the prosperous peasants and exacted from them with the utmost severity.
2. Those who were poorly-off or idle pleasure-seekers were immediately sent out to plough, and if, in his opinion, their work was unsatisfactory, he would send them out to labour for other peasants, who paid him a voluntary tribute for this service, while those delivered into serfdom had the full right to buy back their freedom by paying twice the annual tithes, over and above any arrears that might be due. The costs of all public services fell upon the well-to-do peasants. Recruitment for the army was the principal triumph of that mercenary administrator, since, according to that system, all the rich peasants were able to buy themselves out of it, one by one, until there remained only scoundrels or those who had been ruined.
Note That accursed steward put Anton Timofeyev in irons, but old Timofey bought out his son for one hundred roubles; the steward then put Petrushka Yeremeyev in irons, and he was bought out for sixty-eight roubles by his father; and that accursed man wanted to put Lekha Tarasov in irons, but he fled into the forest, which made the steward sorely distressed and he poured forth his anger in words; and then Vanka the drunkard was taken away to town and handed over as a recruit. (From a report by the peasants of Goryukhino.)
The peasant assemblies were abolished. The steward collected the tithes piecemeal all year round. Into the bargain he instituted sudden tax collections. It appears that the peas
ants did not pay much more than they had done previously; but they were quite unable to earn or save enough money for their needs. Within three years Goryukhino became utterly destitute.
Goryukhino sank into gloom and dejection, the market became deserted, the songs of Arkhip the Bald were heard no more. Village children ran around begging. Half of the peasants were sent out to plough, while the other half were used for hired labour; and the day of the church festival became, as the chronicler expresses it, not a day of joy and exultation, but an anniversary of sadness and woeful remembrance.
ROSLAVLEV
While reading Roslavlev1 I saw to my amazement that its plot was based on a true happening, all too familiar to me. I had once been a friend of the unfortunate woman chosen by Mr Zagoskin as the heroine of his tale. He turned the public’s attention anew to a forgotten event, aroused feelings of indignation that had been lulled by time and disturbed the peace of the grave. I shall be the protectress of that ‘shade’ – and the reader will forgive the feebleness of my pen, having respect for the sincerity of my motives. I shall be compelled to speak a great deal about myself, because my destiny was long bound up with the fate of my poor friend.
I was brought out into society in the winter of 1811. I shall not describe my first impressions. It is easy to imagine what a sixteen-year-old girl must feel after exchanging schoolroom and tutors for a life constantly filled with balls. I surrendered myself to the whirl of gaiety with all the vivacity of my years and did not pause to reflect… A pity: those times were worthy of observation.
Among the young girls who came out with me, Princess** stood out from the others (Mr Zagoskin called her Polina so I shall leave her with this name). We soon became friends for the following reason.
My brother, a young man of twenty-two, belonged to the company of contemporary dandies; he was working in the Foreign Office and lived in Moscow, leading a life of dancing and riotous behaviour. He fell in love with Polina and begged me to bring our two households together. My brother was the idol of the whole family, and he did what he liked with me.
After making friends with Polina just to please him, I soon formed a genuine attachment for her. There was much that was strange about her, and even more that was attractive. Before I came to understand her, I loved her. Unconsciously I began to see with her eyes and to think with her thoughts.
Polina’s father was a worthy gentleman, that is, he drove in a coach and six and wore a key and a star;2 nevertheless, he was easy-going and unpretentious. Her mother, on the other hand, was a sedate woman, distinguished for her self-importance and common sense.
Polina appeared everywhere; she was surrounded by admirers who courted her, but she was bored and her boredom gave her a proud, aloof appearance. This suited her Grecian profile and black eyebrows remarkably well. I felt triumphant when my satirical remarks brought a smile to that bored face with those perfectly proportioned features.
Polina read an extraordinary amount and quite indiscriminately. She had the key to her father’s library. This library consisted mainly of the works of eighteenth-century authors. She was familiar with French literature, from Montesquieu3 to the novels of Crébillon.4 She knew Rousseau5 by heart. There was not a single Russian book in her library – apart from the works of Sumarokov,6 which Polina never opened. She used to tell me that she had difficulty in reading Russian print, and she probably never read anything in Russian, not even the verses dedicated to her by Muscovite versifiers.
Here I allow myself a brief digression. It is already thirty years now, thank goodness, since we wretched women were reproved for never reading anything in Russian and for being unable, it would appear, to express ourselves in our native language.
Note It is quite wrong of the author of Yury Miloslavsky7 to keep on repeating his vulgar accusations. We all read this book, and, it seems, it is to one of us females that he is indebted for the translation of his novel into French.
The fact is, we would be glad to read Russian; but our literature appears to be no older than Lomonosov8 and as yet is extraordinarily limited. It of course offers us a few excellent poets, but one really cannot expect from every reader an exclusive liking for poetry. As regards prose, all we have is Karamzin’s History;9 the first two or three novels appeared two or three years ago, whereas in France, England and Germany, books appear one after the other, each more remarkable than the last. We do not even see any translations; and if we did then, to tell the truth, I would still prefer to read the originals. Our journals have interest only for men of letters. We are compelled to glean everything, whether news or ideas, from foreign books; thus we also think in foreign languages (at least all those who do think and who follow the thoughts of mankind). Our most celebrated men of letters admitted this to me. The endless complaints of our writers about the way we neglect Russian books resemble the complaints of Russian merchants, indignant that we go and buy our hats from Sikhler10 and are not satisfied with the creations of milliners from Kostroma. Now I return to my subject.
Even in epochs of historical significance reminiscences of society life are usually vague and worthless. However, the appearance in Moscow of a certain traveller left a deep impression on me. This traveller was Madame de Staël.11 She arrived one summer, when the majority of Muscovites had left for the country. Russian hospitality bestirred itself; people just could not do enough to entertain that famous foreigner. Of course, dinners were held in her honour. Ladies and gentlemen gathered to stare at her and were, for the most part, displeased with her. What they saw was a fat, fifty-year-old woman, dressed too youthfully for her years. They did not like her tone, her speeches seemed far too long and her sleeves far too short. Polina’s father, who had already known Madame de Staël in Paris, gave a dinner for her, to which she invited all our Muscovite wits. It was here that I saw the author of Corinne. She was sitting in the place of honour, elbows on the table, furling and unfurling a roll of paper with her pretty fingers. She seemed in low spirits; on several occasions she started to speak but could not get into the conversation. Our wits ate and drank their fill, and appeared more satisfied with the Prince’s fish soup than with Madame de Staël’s conversation. The ladies behaved stiffly. They and the others only rarely broke the silence, convinced of the insignificance of their thoughts and inhibited in the presence of the European celebrity. Throughout the dinner Polina was on tenterhooks. The guests’ attention was divided between the sturgeon and Madame de Staël. At any moment they expected a bon mot from her; finally a double entendre escaped her lips – and a rather daring one at that. Everyone took it up and roared with laughter and there were whispers of amazement; the Prince was beside himself with joy. I glanced at Polina. Her face was burning, her eyes filled with tears. The guests rose from the table, completely reconciled to Madame de Staël: she had produced a pun which they dashed off to spread all over town.
‘What’s wrong, ma chère?’ I asked Polina. ‘Is it possible that a slightly risqué little joke could have upset you as much as that?’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Polina replied. ‘I am in despair! How worthless our high society must appear to that remarkable woman! She is used to being surrounded by people who understand her, for whom a brilliant remark, a strong impulse of the heart, an inspired word is never lost; she is accustomed to fascinating conversation, on the highest cultural level. But here … My God! Not a single idea, not a single remarkable word in the course of three hours! Dull faces, dull pomposity – and that’s all! How bored she was! How weary she seemed! She understood what they needed, what those apes of enlightenment could comprehend, and she tossed them a pun. And they just rushed to snap it up! I was burning with shame and ready to weep… But let…’ Polina continued heatedly, ‘let her take away an opinion of our society riff-raff that they deserve. At least she has seen the kind and simple common people and understands them. You heard what she said to that insufferable old buffoon who, in order to gratify a foreign lady, took it into his head to mock our Russian beards: “A nation
which stood up for its beards a hundred years ago will, in our times, stand up for its heads as well.” How charming she is! How I hate her persecutor!’
I was not alone in noticing Polina’s confusion. Another pair of piercing eyes came to rest on her at that same moment: the black eyes of Madame de Staël herself. I do not know what she thought, only that after dinner she went up to my friend and started talking to her. After a few days Madame de Staël wrote her the following note:
Ma chère enfant, je suis toute malade. Il serait bien aimable à vous de venir me ranimer. Tâchez de l’obtenir de m-me votre mère et veuillez lui presenter les respects de votre amie de S.12
This note is still in my possession. Polina never made clear to me the nature of her relationship with Madame de Staël, despite my curiosity. She idolized that celebrated woman, as good-natured as she was brilliant.
To what extremes a passion for malicious talk can lead! Recently I recounted this story to very respectable company.
‘Perhaps,’ they pointed out to me, ‘Madame de Staël was none other than one of Napoleon’s spies and Princess ** was providing her with the information she needed.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said, ‘Madame de Staël, persecuted for ten years by Napoleon; noble, kind Madame de Staël, who barely managed to escape, to find refuge under the protection of the Russian Emperor; Madame de Staël, friend of Chateaubriand13 and Byron – working as a spy for Napoleon!…’
‘It’s highly likely,’ retorted the sharp-nosed Countess B. ‘Napoleon was such a rogue, and Madame de Staël is a cunning creature!’
Everyone was talking of the imminent war and, as far as I can remember, quite frivolously. Imitation of the French attitude of the time of Louis XV was then in vogue. Love of one’s native country seemed pedantry. Contemporary wits praised Napoleon with fanatical servility and joked about our failures. Unfortunately, defenders of the fatherland were rather simple-minded; they were ridiculed (rather amusingly) and had no influence at all. Their patriotism was limited to cruel criticism of the use of the French language in social gatherings, of the introduction of foreign words and to threatening outbursts against Kuznetsky Bridge,14 and so on. Young people spoke about everything Russian with contempt or indifference and, by way of a joke, predicted for Russia the same fate as that of the Confederation of the Rhine.15 In brief, society was pretty vile.
Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Page 12
