In the drawing room, in uniform, sword at his side, hat in his hand, sat the tsar’s Moor, talking respectfully with Gavrila Afanasyevich. Korsakov, sprawled on a downy sofa, was listening to them absentmindedly and teasing a venerable borzoi hound. Bored with this occupation, he went to the mirror, the usual recourse of his idleness, and in it saw Tatyana Afanasyevna, who was in the doorway making unnoticed signs to her brother.
“You’re wanted, Gavrila Afanasyevich,” said Korsakov, turning to him and interrupting Ibrahim’s speech. Gavrila Afanasyevich went to his sister at once and closed the door behind him.
“I marvel at your patience,” Korsakov said to Ibrahim. “For a whole hour you’ve been listening to this raving about the antiquity of the Lykov and Rzhevsky families and adding your own moralizing observations to it. If I were you, j’aurais planté là*6 the old babbler and all his kin, including Natalya Gavrilovna, who minces around, pretending she’s sick, une petite santé*7…Tell me honestly, are you really in love with this little mijaurée?*8 Listen, Ibrahim, for once at least take my advice; I’m really more sensible than I seem. Drop this foolish notion. Don’t get married. It seems to me that your bride-to-be has no particular inclination for you. All sorts of things happen in this world. For instance: I’m not bad-looking, of course, but I’ve happened to deceive husbands who, by God, were no worse than me. You yourself…Remember our Parisian friend, Count D.? You can’t trust in a woman’s fidelity; happy the man who looks upon it with indifference! But you!…With your ardent, brooding, and suspicious character, with your flattened nose, puffy lips, and that mop of wool, to rush into all the dangers of marriage?…”
“Thank you for the friendly advice,” Ibrahim interrupted him coldly, “but you know the proverb: Don’t go rocking another man’s babies…”
“Watch out, Ibrahim,” Korsakov replied, laughing, “or you may actually get to demonstrate that proverb afterwards, in the literal sense.”
But the conversation in the other room was growing heated.
“You’ll be the death of her,” the old woman was saying. “She won’t bear the sight of him.”
“But judge for yourself,” the obstinate brother objected. “It’s already two weeks that he’s been coming as a suitor, and he’s yet to see the bride-to-be. He’ll finally start thinking that her illness is an empty device, and that we’re just seeking to delay things so as to get rid of him somehow. And what will the tsar say? He’s already sent three times to ask after Natalya’s health. Like it or not, I have no intention of quarreling with him.”
“Lord God,” said Tatyana Afanasyevna, “what will become of the poor girl? At least let me prepare her for such a visit.” Gavrila Afanasyevich agreed and went back to the drawing room.
“Thank God,” he said to Ibrahim, “the danger is past. Natalya is much better. If I weren’t ashamed to leave our dear guest, Ivan Evgrafovich, alone here, I’d take you upstairs to have a look at your bride.”
Korsakov congratulated Gavrila Afanasyevich, asked him not to worry, assured him that he had to leave, and ran to the front hall, not allowing the host to see him off.
Meanwhile Tatyana Afanasyevna hastened to prepare the sick girl for the appearance of the dreaded guest. Going into the room, she sat down, breathless, by the bed, took Natasha’s hand, but, before she had time to utter a word, the door opened. Natasha asked who was there. The old woman froze and went dumb. Gavrila Afanasyevich drew the curtain aside, looked coldly at the sick girl, and asked how she was. The sick girl wanted to smile at him, but could not. Her father’s stern gaze stunned her, and she was seized with anxiety. At that moment it seemed that someone was standing at the head of her bed. She raised her head with effort and suddenly recognized the tsar’s Moor. Here she remembered everything, all the horror of the future arose before her. But her exhausted nature suffered no noticeable shock. Natasha lowered her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes…Her heart was pounding painfully. Tatyana Afanasyevna made a sign to her brother that the sick girl wanted to sleep, and they all quietly left the bedroom, except for the maid, who sat down again at the spinning wheel.
The unhappy beauty opened her eyes and, seeing no one at her bedside now, beckoned to the maid and sent her for the dwarf. But just then the round little old woman came rolling up to her bed like a ball. Lastochka*9 (that was the dwarf’s name) had followed Gavrila Afanasyevich and Ibrahim upstairs as fast as her stubby legs would carry her and hidden behind the door, faithful to the curiosity natural to the fair sex. Seeing her, Natasha sent the maid away, and the dwarf seated herself by the bed on a little bench.
Never had so small a body contained in itself so much mental activity. She meddled in everything, knew everything, busied herself with everything. With her clever and insinuating mind, she had managed to earn the love of her masters and the hatred of the rest of the household, which she ruled despotically. Gavrila Afanasyevich heeded her denunciations, complaints, and petty demands; Tatyana Afanasyevna constantly asked her opinion and followed her advice; and Natasha had a boundless affection for her and confided to her all her thoughts and all the stirrings of her sixteen-year-old heart.
“You know, Lastochka,” she said, “my father is giving me away to the Moor.”
The dwarf sighed deeply, and her wrinkled face became more wrinkled still.
“Is there no hope?” Natasha went on. “Will my father not take pity on me?”
The dwarf shook her little bonnet.
“Won’t my grandfather or my aunt intercede for me?”
“No, my young miss. During your illness, the Moor managed to enchant everybody. The master’s lost his mind over him, the prince raves only about him, and Tatyana Afanasyevna says: ‘Too bad he’s a Moor, otherwise we couldn’t dream of a better suitor.’ ”
“My God, my God!” poor Natasha moaned.
“Don’t grieve, my beauty,” said the dwarf, kissing her weak hand. “Even if you do marry the Moor, you’ll still have your freedom. Nowadays it’s not the same as in olden times; husbands don’t lock their wives up; they say the Moor’s rich; your house will be a full cup, your life will flow like a song…”
“Poor Valerian,” said Natasha, but so softly that the dwarf could only guess at but not hear the words.
“That’s just it,” she said, lowering her voice mysteriously. “If you thought less about the strelets’s orphan, you wouldn’t have raved about him in your fever, and your father wouldn’t be angry.”
“What?” said Natasha, frightened. “I raved about Valerian, my father heard it, my father’s angry!”
“That’s just the trouble,” said the dwarf. “Now, if you ask him not to marry you to the Moor, he’ll think it’s because of Valerian. Nothing to be done: submit to the parental will, and what will be will be.”
Natasha did not utter a word of objection. The thought that her heart’s secret was known to her father had a strong effect on her imagination. One hope remained for her: to die before the hateful marriage took place. This thought comforted her. With a weak and sorrowful heart she submitted to her fate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
To the right of the front hall in Gavrila Afanasyevich’s house there was a small room with one little window. In it stood a simple bed covered with a flannelette blanket, and before the bed a small deal table on which a tallow candle burned and a musical score lay open. On the wall hung an old blue uniform and an equally old three-cornered hat; over it a cheap woodcut portraying Charles XII on horseback was fastened to the wall with three nails. The sounds of a flute could be heard in this humble abode. The captive dancing master, its solitary inhabitant, in a nightcap and a nankeen dressing gown, charmed away the boredom of the winter evening by playing old Swedish marches, which reminded him of the merry days of his youth. Having devoted a whole two hours to this exercise, the Swede took the flute apart, put it into the case, and began to undress.
Just then the latch of his door was raised, and a tall, handsome young man in a uniform came into the r
oom.
The astonished Swede stood up before the unexpected guest.
“Don’t you recognize me, Gustav Adamych?” said the young visitor in a moved voice. “Don’t you remember the little boy to whom you taught the Swedish field manual, with whom you almost set fire to this very room, shooting from a toy cannon?”
Gustav Adamych peered at him intently…
“A-a-ah!” he cried at last, embracing him. “Greetinks! Zo it’s really you! Zit down, my goot scapegrace, let’s talk…”
* * *
*1 Lucky time, bearing the mark of license, / When light-footed madness skips about, / Swinging its little bell, all over France, / When no mortal deigns to be devout, / When they do all except for penitence. —Voltaire, La Pucelle d’Orléans, Canto XIII.
*2 “Good night.”
*3 “Between us.”
*4 “What the devil is all this?”
*5 steps
*6 “I would have dumped”
*7 “in poor health”
*8 “pretentious young thing”
*9 Literally “swallow.”
The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin
Mme Prostakova: So, my dear sir, he has been a lover of stories since childhood.
Skotinin: Mitrofan takes after me.
FONVIZIN, The Dunce1
FROM THE PUBLISHER
Having undertaken the task of publishing The Tales of I. P. Belkin, now offered to the public, we wish to attach to them at least a brief biography of the late author and thus satisfy in part the justifiable curiosity of the lovers of our national literature. To that end we addressed ourselves to Marya Alexeevna Trafilina, the closest relation and heir of Ivan Petrovich Belkin; but, unfortunately, she was unable to provide any information about him, for she was not acquainted with the late man at all. She advised us to refer on this subject to a certain estimable gentleman who had been Ivan Petrovich’s friend. We followed her advice, and to our letter received the desired reply that follows. We place it here without any changes or commentary, as a precious memorial of a noble way of thinking and of a touching friendship, and at the same time as a perfectly sufficient biographical notice.
My dear Mr. * * *,
On the 23rd of this month I had the honor of receiving your esteemed letter of the 15th of the same month, in which you express to me your wish to have detailed information about the dates of birth and death, the service, the domestic circumstances, and the occupations and character of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, formerly my sincere friend and neighboring landowner. It is a great pleasure for me to fulfill your wish and send to you, my dear sir, all that I am able to remember of his conversation, as well as my own observations.
Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born of honorable and noble parents in 1798, in the village of Goryukhino. His late father, Second-Major Pyotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to Miss Pelageya Gavrilovna, of the house of Trafilin. He was not a wealthy man, but frugal, and quite clever with regard to management. Their son received his primary education from the village sexton. It was to this estimable man, it seems, that he owed his love of reading and his studies of Russian literature. In 1815 he entered the service in a regiment of the light infantry (I do not remember the number), in which he remained until 1823. The deaths of his parents, which occurred at almost the same time, forced him to retire and return to the village of Goryukhino, his paternal seat.
Having taken over the running of the estate, Ivan Petrovich, owing to his inexperience and soft-heartedness, soon let the management fall into neglect and relaxed the strict discipline his father had established. He replaced the industrious and efficient village headman, with whom the peasants (as is their wont) were displeased, entrusting the running of the village to his old housekeeper, who had gained his confidence by her art of telling stories. This stupid old woman was never able to distinguish between a twenty-five-rouble note and a fifty-rouble one; the peasants, who were all chummy with her, had no fear of her at all; the headman they chose connived with them and cheated so much that Ivan Petrovich was forced to abolish the corvée and institute a very moderate quitrent; but here, too, the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, requested a significant exemption for the first year, and after that paid more than two-thirds of the quitrent in nuts, whortleberries, and the like; and here, too, there were arrears.
Having been a friend of Ivan Petrovich’s late father, I considered it my duty to offer the son my advice and volunteered more than once to re-establish the former order, which he had neglected. To that end, I called on him one day, asked to see the account books, summoned the swindling headman, and began to examine them in Ivan Petrovich’s presence. At first the young master followed me with all possible attention and diligence; but when the accounts showed that the number of peasants had increased in the last two years, while the number of the estate’s fowl and livestock had significantly decreased, Ivan Petrovich satisfied himself with this initial information and listened no further to me, and at the very moment when, in my investigation and strict questioning, I threw the swindling headman into the utmost confusion and reduced him to total silence, I was greatly annoyed to hear Ivan Petrovich snoring loudly in his chair. After that I stopped interfering in his management and handed his affairs over (as he himself did) to the management of the Almighty.
Our friendly relations, however, were not in the least disturbed by that; for, sympathizing with his weakness and harmful negligence, common to our young nobility, I sincerely loved Ivan Petrovich; indeed it was impossible not to love such a meek and honest young man. For his part, Ivan Petrovich showed respect for my age and was deeply devoted to me. Right up to the end he saw me almost every day, cherishing my simple conversation, though in habits, in character, in our way of thinking, he and I had almost nothing in common.
Ivan Petrovich led a most frugal life, avoiding any sort of excess; never did I see him tipsy (which in our parts can be regarded as an unheard-of miracle); he had a great inclination for the female sex, but his shyness was truly maidenly.*1
Besides the tales you are pleased to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left many manuscripts, some of which are in my possession, some of which the housekeeper has put to various domestic uses. For instance, last winter she sealed all of her cottage windows with the first part of a novel he had left unfinished. The above-mentioned tales seem to have been his first experiments. They are, as Ivan Petrovich used to say, mostly true and heard by him from various persons.*2 However, the names in them are almost all fictitious, and the names of the towns and villages are all borrowed from our neighborhood, which is why my village is also mentioned somewhere. This occurred not from any ill intention, but solely from a lack of imagination.
In the autumn of 1828, Ivan Petrovich came down with a fit of ague that turned into a high fever, and he died, despite the indefatigable efforts of our district doctor, a very skillful man, especially in treating inveterate illnesses such as corns and the like. He died in my arms at thirty years of age and is buried in the church of Goryukhino next to his late parents.
Ivan Petrovich was of medium height, had gray eyes, light brown hair, and a straight nose; his face was fair and lean.
That, my dear sir, is all I can remember concerning the way of life, occupations, character, and appearance of my late neighbor and friend. But in case you are pleased to make some use of this letter of mine, I most humbly beg you to make no mention of my name; for though I have great respect and love for writers, I consider it superfluous and, at my age, improper to join their ranks. With my sincere respects, and so on.
16 November 1830
Village of Nenaradovo
Considering it our duty to respect the will of our author’s estimable friend, we express our profound gratitude to him for the information he has provided us and hope that the public will value its sincerity and good nature.
A. P.
* * *
*1 There follows an anecdote which we do not include, supposing it to be superfluous;
however, we assure the reader that it contains nothing prejudicial to the memory of Ivan Petrovich Belkin. (The Publisher)
*2 In fact, in Mr. Belkin’s manuscript, at the head of each story there is written in the author’s hand: “Heard by me from such-and-such person” with rank or title and initials. We note them down here for curious readers: “The Stationmaster” was told him by the titular councilor A. G. N., “The Shot” by Lieutenant Colonel I. L. P., “The Coffin-Maker” by the clerk B. V., “The Blizzard” and “The Young Lady Peasant” by Miss K. I. T. (The Publisher)
THE SHOT
We fought a duel.
BARATYNSKY1
I swore I would shoot him by the rules of
dueling (I had not yet taken my shot at him).
An Evening at Bivouac2
I
We were stationed in the small town of * * *. Everyone is familiar with the life of an army officer. In the morning, drill and riding practice; dinner at the regimental commander’s or in a Jewish tavern; in the evening, punch and cards. There was not a single open house in * * *, not a single marriageable girl; we gathered in one another’s rooms, where there was nothing to be seen but our uniforms.
Only one man belonging to our group was not military. He was about thirty-five, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; besides that, his habitual sullenness, tough character, and wicked tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some mysteriousness surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but had a foreign name. He had once served in the hussars, and even successfully; no one knew what motive had prompted him to retire and settle in a poor little town, where he lived both poorly and extravagantly: he always went about on foot, in a shabby black frock coat, yet he kept open house for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinners consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but then the champagne flowed in streams. No one knew his fortune, or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had some books, mostly military, but also novels. He willingly lent them out, and never asked for them back; then, too, he never returned a borrowed book to its owner. His main exercise consisted in shooting pistols. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullet holes like a honeycomb. A fine collection of pistols was the only luxury in the poor clay-and-wattle hovel he lived in. The skill he had achieved was unbelievable, and if he had volunteered to knock a pear off of somebody’s cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to offer him his head. The conversation among us often touched upon duels; Silvio (as I shall call him) never mixed into it. To the question of whether he had ever fought a duel, he replied drily that he had, but did not go into the details, and it was clear that such questions displeased him. We supposed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible skill lay on his conscience. However, it never entered our heads to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. An unexpected incident amazed us all.
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 6
