“Knew him, yes, I knew him well. Did he never tell you…but no, I suppose not. Did he never tell you about one very strange incident?”
“Does Your Excellency mean the slap in the face he received from some scapegrace at a ball?”
“And did he tell you the name of that scapegrace?”
“No, Your Excellency, he didn’t…Ah, Your Excellency,” I went on, guessing the truth, “forgive me…I didn’t know…Can it have been you?”
“I myself,” the count replied, looking extremely upset, “and the bullet-pierced painting is a souvenir of our last meeting—”
“Ah, my dear,” said the countess, “for God’s sake don’t tell about it; I’d be frightened to listen.”
“No,” the count objected, “I’ll tell it all. He knows how I offended his friend; let him learn how Silvio took revenge on me.”
The count moved an armchair for me, and with the liveliest curiosity I listened to the following story.
“Five years ago I got married. The first month, the ‘honey-moon,’* I spent here in this village. I owe to this house the best moments of my life and one of the most oppressive memories.
“One evening we went out riding together. My wife’s horse started to balk; she got frightened, handed me the reins, and went home on foot. I rode ahead. In the yard I saw a traveling cart; I was told that there was a man sitting in my study who did not want to give his name, but simply said he had business with me. I went into that room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and overgrown with beard; he was standing here, by the fireplace. I went up to him, trying to recall his features.
“ ‘Don’t you recognize me, Count?’ he said in a trembling voice.
“ ‘Silvio!’ I cried, and I confess, I felt my hair suddenly stand on end.
“ ‘That’s right,’ he went on. ‘I owe you a shot; I’ve come to discharge my pistol. Are you ready?’
“The pistol was sticking out of his side pocket. I measured off twelve paces and stood there in the corner, begging him to shoot quickly, before my wife came back. He delayed—he asked for light. Candles were brought. I shut the door, gave orders to let no one in, and again begged him to shoot. He drew his pistol and took aim…I counted the seconds…I thought of her…A terrible minute went by! Silvio lowered his arm.
“ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that the pistol isn’t loaded with cherry stones…bullets are heavy. I keep thinking that what we’re doing is not a duel, but murder: I’m not used to aiming at an unarmed man. Let’s start over; we’ll draw lots for who shoots first.’
“My head was spinning…It seems I did not agree…Finally we loaded another pistol; we rolled up two pieces of paper; he put them in the cap I had once shot through; again I drew the first number.
“ ‘You’re devilishly lucky, Count,’ he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he forced me into it…but—I shot and hit this painting.” (The count pointed his finger at the hole in the painting; his face was burning like fire; the countess was paler than her own handkerchief: I couldn’t help crying out.)
“I shot,” the count went on, “and, thank God, I missed. Then Silvio—he was truly terrible at that moment—Silvio began to take aim at me. Suddenly the door opened, Masha runs in and throws herself on my neck with a shriek. Her presence gave me back all my courage.
“ ‘My dear,’ I said to her, ‘don’t you see we’re joking? How frightened you are! Go, drink a glass of water, and come back to us; I’ll introduce you to my old friend and comrade.’
“Masha still did not believe it.
“ ‘Tell me, is my husband speaking the truth?’ she said, turning to the dreadful Silvio. ‘Is it true that you’re both joking?’
“ ‘He’s always joking, Countess,’ Silvio replied. ‘He once slapped me in the face for a joke; for a joke he shot a hole in this cap of mine; for a joke he missed hitting me a moment ago. Now I, too, feel like joking a bit…’
“With those words, he was about to take aim at me…in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet.
“ ‘Get up, Masha, shame on you!’ I cried in fury. ‘And you, sir, will you kindly stop taunting the poor woman? Are you going to shoot, or not?’
“ ‘I won’t,’ Silvio replied. ‘I’m satisfied: I’ve seen your confusion, your dismay; I made you shoot at me, for me that’s enough. You will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.’ He was on his way out, but stopped in the doorway, glanced at the painting I had shot through, shot at it almost without aiming, and vanished. My wife lay in a swoon; my servants did not dare stop him and watched him with horror. He went out to the porch, called the coachman, and drove off before I had time to come to my senses.”
The count fell silent. It was thus that I learned the end of the story, whose beginning had once struck me so much. I never met its hero again. They say that, during the uprising of Alexander Ypsilanti, Silvio led a detachment of Hetairists and was killed at the battle of Skulyani.4
* * *
* In English in the original. Translator.
THE BLIZZARD
Over the rough road steeds go racing,
Trampling the deep snow…
There to one side is God’s church
Standing all alone.
…………………………
Suddenly a blizzard fills the air;
Snow falls thick and heavy;
A black raven, a whistling wing,
Hovers above the sledge;
Its prophetic cry gives voice to sorrow!
The steeds go dashing on
Peering into the darkling distance;
Their manes fly in the wind…
ZHUKOVSKY1
At the end of the year 1811, a memorable epoch for us all, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R–– was living on his estate of Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and warm-heartedness; neighbors constantly came to him to eat, to drink, to gamble away five kopecks playing Boston with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna, and some to gaze at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale, and seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many a man intended her for himself or for one of his sons.
Marya Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels and, consequently, was in love. The object of her choice was a poor army ensign on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man was burning with an equal passion and that the parents of his beloved, having noticed their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter even to think of him, and received him worse than a retired assessor.
Our lovers were in correspondence, and each day met alone in the pine wood or by the old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, bemoaned their fate, and discussed various possibilities. Corresponding and conversing in this way, they arrived (quite naturally) at the following reasoning: Since we cannot draw a breath without each other, and the will of cruel parents is an obstacle to our happiness, can we not get along without them? Of course, this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and it greatly pleased the romantic imagination of Marya Gavrilovna.
Winter came and put an end to their trysts; but their correspondence became all the livelier. In every letter Vladimir Nikolaevich implored her to entrust herself to him, to get married in secret, to hide away for some time, then to throw themselves at the feet of her parents, who of course would be moved in the end by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would surely say: “Children, come to our arms!”
Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many plans for the elopement were rejected. She finally agreed to one: on the appointed day she would not have supper and would withdraw to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in on the conspiracy; they would both go out to the garden through the back door, find a sledge ready behind the garden, get into it and drive three miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be w
aiting for them.
On the eve of the decisive day, Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, bundled up her linen and clothes, wrote a long letter to a certain sentimental girlfriend of hers, another to her parents. She said good-bye to them in the most touching expressions, excused her act by the invincible power of passion, and finished by saying that she would count it as the most blessed moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed her letter with a Tula seal that bore the image of two flaming hearts with an appropriate inscription,2 she threw herself on the bed before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams kept waking her up. First it seemed to her that, just as she was getting into the sledge to drive off to her wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her over the snow with agonizing speed, and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon…and she went flying down headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloody. Dying, he begged her in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him…Other shapeless, senseless visions raced before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her agitation; their tender concern and ceaseless questions—“What’s the matter, Masha? Are you unwell, Masha?”—tore her heart. She tried to calm them, to look cheerful, and could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she would see the day off amidst her family wrung her heart. She was barely alive. She secretly took leave of all the persons, of all the objects around her.
Supper was served; her heart began to pound violently. In a trembling voice she announced that she did not want to eat and started saying goodnight to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, gave her their blessing: she all but wept. Coming to her room, she collapsed on an armchair and dissolved in tears. Her maid urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. In half an hour Masha was to leave forever her parental home, her room, her quiet maidenly life…Outside there was a blizzard; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and an omen of sorrow. Soon the whole house became quiet and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her box, and went out to the back porch. Behind her the maid carried her two bundles. They went down to the garden. The blizzard had not let up; the wind blew in her face, as if trying to stop the young criminal. She was barely able to reach the end of the garden. The sledge was waiting for them on the road. The chilled horses would not stand still; Vladimir’s coachman walked about in front of the shafts, restraining their restiveness. He helped the girl and her maid to seat themselves and stow the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew off. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the skill of the coachman Tereshka, let us now turn to our young lover.
Vladimir spent the whole day driving around. In the morning he went to see the Zhadrino priest; he had a hard time persuading him; then he went looking for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first one he presented himself to, the retired forty-year-old ensign Dravin, accepted willingly. This adventure, he assured him, was reminiscent of the old days and his hussar pranks. He persuaded Vladimir to stay for dinner and assured him that there would be no trouble finding the other two witnesses. In fact, right after dinner the surveyor Schmidt appeared in his moustaches and spurs, and the son of the police chief, a sixteen-year-old boy who had just joined the uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even swore they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them rapturously and went home to make ready.
By then it had long been dark. He sent his trusty Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed, thorough instructions, and for himself ordered a small one-horse sledge hitched up, and alone, without a coachman, set out for Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was to arrive in some two hours. He knew the way—it was at most a twenty-minute drive.
But Vladimir had barely reached the fields outside the village when the wind picked up and such a blizzard set in that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was buried; the surroundings disappeared in a dim, yellowish murk, through which white snowflakes flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir ended up in a field and tried in vain to get back to the road; the horse walked at random and kept going up onto drifts, then sinking down into holes; the sledge kept overturning; Vladimir tried only not to lose the right direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already gone by, and he had not yet reached the wood of Zhadrino. Ten more minutes went by; the wood was still not in sight. Vladimir drove over a field crossed by deep gullies. The blizzard did not let up, the sky did not clear. His horse began to tire, and he himself was dripping with sweat, even though he was constantly up to his waist in snow.
Finally he saw that he was going the wrong way. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, to recall, to consider, and became convinced that he should have turned to the right. He drove to the right. His horse could barely walk. He had already been traveling for more than an hour. Zhadrino had to be close by. But he drove and drove, and there was no end to the field. It was all snowdrifts and gullies; the sledge kept overturning, he kept righting it. Time passed; Vladimir began to worry greatly.
Finally something showed blackly to one side. Vladimir turned that way. Coming closer, he saw a wood. Thank God, he thought, it’s close now. He skirted the wood, hoping to fall at once upon the familiar road or to circle the wood: Zhadrino was just beyond it. Soon he found the road and entered the darkness of the trees, bared by winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse took heart, and Vladimir felt more calm.
But he drove and drove, and there was no sign of Zhadrino; there was no end to the wood. Vladimir realized with horror that he had ended up in an unfamiliar forest. Despair overcame him. He whipped up the horse; the poor animal went into a canter, but soon became tired and after a quarter of an hour slowed to a walk, despite all the efforts of the unfortunate Vladimir.
The trees gradually began to thin out, and Vladimir emerged from the forest. There was no sign of Zhadrino. It must have been around midnight. Tears poured from his eyes; he drove on at random. The weather quieted down, the clouds scattered, before him lay a plain covered with a white, undulating carpet. The night was quite clear. He saw not far away a little village of four or five houses. Vladimir drove there. At the first hut he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the window, and started to knock. After several minutes a wooden shutter rose and an old man stuck out his gray beard.
“What do you want?”
“Is it far to Zhadrino?”
“Far to Zhadrino?”
“Yes, yes! Is it far?”
“Not so far, maybe seven miles.”
At that reply, Vladimir seized himself by the hair and stood motionless, like a man condemned to death.
“So where are you from?” the old man went on. Vladimir had no heart to answer questions.
“Listen, old man,” he said, “can you get me horses for Zhadrino?”
“What have we got for horses?” the muzhik replied.
“Might I at least have a guide? I’ll pay whatever he likes.”
“Wait,” said the old man, lowering the shutter, “I’ll send you my son. He’ll take you there.”
Vladimir started to wait. A minute had not passed before he began to knock again. The shutter rose, the beard appeared.
“What do you want?”
“Where is your son?”
“He’ll be right out, he’s putting his boots on. Maybe you’re chilly? Come in and warm up.”
“No, thank you, send your son out quickly.”
The gate creaked; a lad with a cudgel came out and walked ahead, now showing, now searching for the road, buried under snowdrifts.
“What time is it?” asked Vladimir.
“It’ll be dawn soon,” the young muzhik replied. Vladimir did not say another word.
The cocks we
re crowing and it was already light when they reached Zhadrino. The church was locked. Vladimir paid his guide and drove to the priest’s house. His troika was not in the yard. What news awaited him!
But let us return to the good Nenaradovo landowners and see what is going on there.
Nothing.
The old folk woke up and came out to the drawing room. Gavrila Gavrilovich in a nightcap and flannelette jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a quilted dressing gown. The samovar was brought, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent a girl to find out about Marya Gavrilovna’s health and how she had slept. The girl came back, announcing that the young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now and would presently come to the drawing room. Indeed, the door opened, and Marya Gavrilovna came to greet her papa and mama.
“How’s your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.
“Better, papa,” Masha replied.
“You must have had fume poisoning yesterday, Masha,” said Praskovya Petrovna.
“Perhaps, mama,” said Masha.
The day passed well enough, but during the night Masha fell ill. They sent to town for the doctor. He came towards evening and found the patient delirious. She had a high fever, and for two weeks the poor patient lay on the brink of the grave.
No one in the house knew about the proposed elopement. The letters written the day before were burned; her maid said nothing to anyone, fearing the masters’ wrath. The priest, the retired ensign, the moustachioed surveyor, and the little uhlan were discreet, and not without reason. Tereshka the coachman never gave away anything unnecessary, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself gave her secret away in her ceaseless raving. However, her words were so incongruous that her mother, who never left her bedside, could understand from them only that her daughter was mortally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich and that love was probably the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband, with some neighbors, and in the end they all unanimously decided that this was clearly Marya Gavrilovna’s destiny, that you can’t escape the one you’re meant for, that poverty is no crime, that you live with a man, not with his money, and so on. Moral sayings are surprisingly useful on occasions when we can think up little to justify ourselves on our own.
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 8
