the lady rustic.
in one of our distant provinces was the estate of ivan petrovitch berestoff. as a youth he served in the guards, but having left the army early in 1797 he retired to his country seat and there remained. he married a wife from among the poor nobility, and when she died in childbed he happened to be detained on farming business in one of his distant fields. his daily occupations soon brought him consolation. he built a house on his own plan, set up his own cloth factory, became his own auditor and accountant, and began to think himself the cleverest fellow in the whole district. the neighbours who used to come to him upon a visit and bring their families and dogs took good care not to contradict him. his work-a-day dress was a short coat of velveteen; on holidays he wore a frock-coat of cloth from his own factory. his accounts took most of his time, and he read nothing but the senatorial news. on the whole, though he was considered proud, he was[pg 156] not disliked. the only person who could never get on with him was his nearest neighbour, grigori ivanovitch muromsky. a true russian barin, he had squandered in moscow a large part of his estate, and having lost his wife as well as his money he had retired to his sole remaining property, and there continued his extragavance but in a different way. he set up an english garden on which he spent nearly all the income he had left. his grooms wore english liveries. an english governess taught his daughter. he farmed his land upon the english system. but foreign farming grows no russian corn.
so, in spite of his retirement, the income of grigori ivanovitch did not increase. even in the country he had a faculty for making new debts. but he was no fool, people said, for was he not the first landowner in all that province to mortgage his property to the government—a process then generally believed to be one of great complexity and risk? among his detractors berestoff, a thorough hater of innovation, was the most severe. in speaking of his neighbour's anglo-mania he could scarcely keep his feelings under control, and missed no opportunity for criticism. to some compliment from a visitor to his estate he would answer, with a knowing smile:
"yes, my farming is not like that of grigori ivanovitch. i can't afford to ruin my land on the[pg 157] english system, but i am satisfied to escape starvation on the russian."
obliging neighbours reported these and other jokes to grigori, with additions and commentaries of their own. the anglo-maniac was as irritable as a journalist under this criticism, and wrathfully referred to his critic as a bumpkin and a bear.
relations were thus strained when berestoff's son came home. having finished his university career, he wanted to go into the army; but his father objected. for the civil service young berestoff had no taste. neither would yield, so young alexis took up the life of a country gentleman, and to be ready for emergencies cultivated a moustache. he was really a handsome fellow, and it would indeed have been a pity never to pinch his fine figure into a military uniform, and instead of displaying his broad shoulders on horseback to round them over an office desk. ever foremost in the hunting-field, and a straight rider, it was quite clear, declared the neighbours, that he could never make a good official. the shy young ladies glanced and the bold stared at him in admiration; but he took no notice of them, and each could only attribute his indifference to some prior attachment. in fact, there was in private circulation, copied from an envelope in his handwriting, this address:
[pg 158]
a. n. p.,
care of akulina petrovna kurotchkina,
opposite alexeieff monastery.
those readers who have not seen our country life can hardly realize the charm of these provincial girls. breathing pure air under the shadow of their apple trees, their only knowledge of the world is drawn from books. in solitude and unrestrained, their feelings and their passions develop early to a degree unknown to the busier beauties of our towns. for them the tinkling of a bell is an event, a drive into the nearest town an epoch, and a chance visit a long, sometimes an everlasting remembrance. at their oddities he may laugh who will, but superficial sneers cannot impair their real merits—their individuality, which, so says jean paul, is a necessary element of greatness. the women in large towns may be better educated, but the levelling influence of the world soon makes all women as much alike as their own head-dresses.
let not this be regarded as condemnation. still as an ancient writer says nota nostra manet.
it may be imagined what an impression alexis made on our country misses. he was the first gloomy and disenchanted hero they had ever beheld; the first who ever spoke to them of vanished joys and blighted past. besides, he wore a black ring with a death's head on it. all this was[pg 159] quite a new thing in that province, and the young ladies all went crazy.
but she in whose thoughts he dwelt most deeply was lisa, or, as the old anglo-maniac called her, betty, the daughter of grigori ivanovitch. their fathers did not visit, so she had never seen alexis, who was the sole topic of conversation among her young neighbours. she was just seventeen, with dark eyes lighting up her pretty face. an only, and consequently a spoilt child, full of life and mischief, she was the delight of her father, and the distraction of her governess, miss jackson, a prim spinster in the forties, who powdered her face and blackened her eyebrows, read pamela twice a year, drew a salary of 2,000 rubles, and was nearly bored to death in barbarous russia.
lisa's maid nastia was older, but quite as flighty as her mistress, who was very fond of her, and had her as confidante in all her secrets and as fellow-conspirator in her mischief.
in fact, no leading lady played half such an important part in french tragedy as was played by nastia in the village.
said nastia, while dressing her young lady:
"may i go to-day and visit a friend?"
"yes. where?"
"to the berestoff's. it is the cook's namesday. he called yesterday to ask us to dinner."
[pg 160]
"then," said lisa, "the masters quarrel and the servants entertain one another."
"and what does that matter to us?" said nastia. "i belong to you and not to your father. you have not quarrelled with young berestoff yet. let the old people fight if they please."
"nastia! try and see alexei berestoff. come back and tell me all about him."
nastia promised; lisa spent the whole day impatiently waiting for her. in the evening she returned.
"well, lisaveta grigorievna!" she said, as she entered the room.
"i have seen young berestoff. i had a good look at him. we spent the whole day together."
"how so? tell me all about it."
"certainly? we started, i and anissia——"
"yes, yes, i know! what then?"
"i would rather tell you in proper order. we were just in time for dinner; the room was quite full. there were the zaharievskys, the steward's wife and daughters, the shlupinskys——"
"yes, yes! and berestoff?"
"wait a bit. we sat down to dinner. the steward's wife had the seat of honour; i sat next to her, and her daughters were huffy; but what do i care!"
"oh, nastia! how tiresome you are with these everlasting details!"
[pg 161]
"how impatient you are! well, then we rose from table—we had been sitting for about three hours and it was a splendid dinner-party, blue, red and striped creams—then we went into the garden to play at kiss-in-the-ring when the young gentleman appeared."
"well, is it true? is he so handsome?"
"wonderfully handsome! i may say beautiful. tall, stately, with a lovely colour."
"really! i thought his face was pale. well, how did he strike you—was he melancholy and thoughtful?"
"oh, no! i never saw such a mad fellow. he took it into his head to join us at kiss-in-the-ring." "he played at kiss-in-the-ring! it is impossible."
"no, it's very possible; and what more do you think? when he caught any one he kissed her." "of course you may tell lies if you like, nastia."
"as you please, miss, only i am not lying. i could scarcely get away from him. indeed he spent the whole day with us."
"why do people say then that he is in love and looks at nobody?"
"i am sure i don't know, miss. he looked too much at me and tania too, the steward's daughter, and at pasha too. in fact, he neglected nobody. he is such a wild fellow!"
[pg 162]
"this is surprising; and what do the servants say about him?"
"they say he is a splendid gentleman—so kind, so lively! he has only one fault: he is too fond of the girls. but i don't think that is such a great fault. he will get steadier in time."
"how i should like to see him," said lisa, with a sigh.
"and why can't you? tugilovo is only a mile off. take a walk in that direction, or a ride, and you are sure to meet him. he shoulders his gun and goes shooting every morning."
"no, it would never do. he would think i was running after him. besides, our fathers have quarrelled, so he and i could hardly set up a friendship. oh, nastia! i know what i'll do. i will dress up like a peasant."
"that will do. put on a coarse chemise and a sarafan, and set out boldly for tugilovo. berestoff will never miss you i promise you."
"i can talk like a peasant splendidly. oh, nastia, dear nastia, what a happy thought!" and lisa went to bed resolved to carry out her plan. next day she made her preparations. she went to the market for some coarse linen, some dark blue stuff, and some brass buttons, and out of these nastia and she cut a chemise and a sarafan. all the maid-servants were set down to sew, and by evening everything was ready.
[pg 163]
as she tried on her new costume before the glass, lisa said to herself that she had never looked so nice. then she began to rehearse her meeting with alexis. first she gave him a low bow as she passed along, then she continued to nod her head like a mandarin. next she addressed him in a peasant patois, simpering and shyly hiding her face behind her sleeve. nastia gave the performance her full approval. but there was one difficulty. she tried to cross the yard barefooted, but the grass stalks pricked her tender feet and the gravel caused intolerable pain. nastia again came to the rescue.
she took the measure of lisa's foot and hurried across the fields to the herdsman trophim, of whom she ordered a pair of bark shoes.
the next morning before daylight lisa awoke. the whole household was still asleep. nastia was at the gate waiting for the herdsman; soon the sound of his horn drew near, and the village herd straggled past the manor gates. after them came trophim, who, as he passed, handed to nastia a little pair of speckled bark shoes, and received a ruble.
lisa, who had quietly donned her peasant dress, whispered to nastia her last instructions about miss jackson; then she went through the kitchen, out of the back door, into the open field, then she began to run.
[pg 164]
dawn was breaking, and the rows of golden clouds stood like courtiers waiting for their monarch. the clear sky, the fresh morning air, the dew, the breeze and singing of the birds filled lisa's heart with child-like joy.
fearing to meet with some acquaintance, she did nor walk but flew. as she drew near the wood where lay the boundary of her father's property she slackened her pace. it was here she was to meet alexis. her heart beat violently, she knew not why. the terrors of our youthful escapades are their chief charm.
lisa stepped forward into the darkness of the wood; its hollow echoes bade her welcome. her buoyant spirits gradually gave place to meditation. she thought—but who shall truly tell the thoughts of sweet seventeen in a wood, alone, at six o'clock on a spring morning?
and as she walked in meditation under the shade of lofty trees, suddenly a beautiful pointer began to bark at her. lisa cried out with fear, and at the same moment a voice exclaimed, "tout beau shogar, ici," and a young sportsman stepped from behind the bushes. "don't be afraid, my dear, he won't bite."
lisa had already recovered from her fright, and instantly took advantage of the situation.
"it's all very well, sir," she said, with assumed timidity and shyness, "i am afraid of him, he[pg 165] seems such a savage creature, and may fly at me again."
alexis, whom the reader has already recognised, looked steadily at the young peasant. "i will escort you, if you are afraid; will you allow me to walk by your side?"
"who is to prevent you?" replied lisa. "a freeman can do as he likes, and the road is public!"
"where do you come from?"
"from prilutchina; i am the daughter of yassili, the blacksmith, and i am looking for mushrooms." she was carrying a basket suspended from her shoulders by a cord.
"and you, barin; are you from tugilovo?"
"exactly, i am the young gentleman's valet" (he wished to equalize their ranks). but lisa looked at him and laughed.
"ah! you are lying," she said. "i am not a fool. i see you are the master himself."
"what makes you think so?"
"everything."
"still——?"
"how can one help it. you are not dressed like a servant. you speak differently. you even call your dog in a foreign tongue."
lisa charmed him more and more every moment. accustomed to be unceremonious with pretty country girls, he tried to kiss her, but lisa[pg 166] jumped aside, and suddenly assumed so distant and severe an air that though it amused him he did not attempt any further familiarities.
"if you wish to remain friends," she said, with dignity, "do not forget yourself."
"who has taught you this wisdom?" asked alexis, with a laugh. "can it be my little friend nastia, your mistress's maid? so this is how civilization spreads."
lisa felt she had almost betrayed herself, and said, "do you think i have never been up to the manor house? i have seen and heard more than you think. still, chattering here with you won't get me mushrooms. you go that way, barin; i'll go the other, begging your pardon;" and lisa made as if to depart, but alexis held her by the hand.
"what is your name, my dear?"
"akulina," she said, struggling to get her fingers free. "let me go, barin, it is time for me to be home."
"well, my friend akulina, i shall certainly call on your father, yassili, the blacksmith."
"for the lord's sake don't do that. if they knew at home i had been talking here alone with the young barin, i should catch it. my father would beat me within an inch of my life."
"well, i must see you again."
"i will come again some other day for mushrooms."
[pg 167]
"when?"
"to-morrow, if you like."
"my dear akulina, i would kiss you if i dared. to-morrow, then, at the same time; that is a bargain."
"all right."
"you will not play me false?"
"no."
"swear it."
"by the holy friday, then, i will come."
the young couple parted. lisa ran out of the wood across the fields, stole into the garden, and rushed headlong into the farmyard, where nastia was waiting for her. then she changed her dress, answering at random the impatient questions of her confidante, and went into the dining-room to find the cloth laid and breakfast ready. miss jackson, freshly powdered and jaced, until she looked like a wine glass, was cutting thin slices of bread and butter. her father complimented lisa on her early walk.
"there is no healthier habit," he remarked, "than to rise at daybreak." he quoted from the english papers several cases of longevity, adding that all centenarians had abstained from spirits, and made it a practice to rise at daybreak winter and summer. lisa did not prove an attentive listener. she was repeating in her mind the details of her morning's interview, and as she recalled[pg 168] akulina's conversation with the young sportsman her conscience smote her. in vain she assured herself that the bounds of decorum had not been passed. this joke, she argued, could have no evil consequences, but conscience would not be quieted. what most disturbed her was her promise to repeat the meeting. she half decided not to keep her word, but then alexis, tired of waiting, might go to seek the blacksmiths daughter in the village and find the real akulina—a stout, pockmarked girl—and so discover the hoax. alarmed at this she determined to re-enact the part of akulina. alexis was enchanted. all day he thought about his new acquaintance and at night he dreamt of her. it was scarcely dawn when he was up and dressed. without waiting even to load his gun he set out followed by the faithful shogar, and ran to the meeting place. half an hour passed in undeniable delay. at last he caught a glimpse of a blue sarafan among the bushes and rushed to meet dear akulina. she smiled to see his eagerness; but he saw traces of anxiety and melancholy on her face. he asked her the cause, and she at last confessed. she had been flighty and was very sorry for it. she had meant not to keep her promise, and this meeting at any rate must be the last. she begged him not to seek to continue an acquaintance which could have no good end. all this, of course, was said[pg 169] in peasant dialect; but the thought and feeling struck alexis as unusual in a peasant. in eloquent words he urged her to abandon this cruel resolution. she should have no reason for repentance; he would obey her in everything, if only she would not rob him of his one happiness and let him see her alone three times or even only twice a week. he spoke with passion, and at the moment he was really in love. lisa listened to him in silence.
"promise," she said, "to seek no other meetings with me but those which i myself appoint."
he was about to swear by the holy friday when she stopped him with a smile.
"i do not want you to swear. your word is enough."
then together they wandered talking in the wood, till lisa said:
"it is time."
they parted; and alexis was left to wonder how in two meetings a simple rustic had gained such influence over him. there was a freshness and novelty about it all that charmed him, and though the conditions she imposed were irksome, the thought of breaking his promise never even entered his mind. after all, in spite of his fatal ring and the mysterious correspondence, alexis was a kind and affectionate youth, with a pure heart still capable of innocent enjoyment. did i[pg 170] consult only my own wishes i should dwell at length on the meetings of these young people, their growing love, their mutual trust, and all they did and all they said. but my pleasure i know would not be shared by the majority of my readers; so for their sake i will omit them. i will only say that in a brief two months alexis was already madly in love, and lisa, though more reticent than he was, not indifferent. happy in the present they took little thought for the future. visions of indissoluble ties flitted not seldom through the minds of both. but neither mentioned them. for alexis, however strong his attachment to akulina, could not forget the social distance that was between them, while lisa, knowing the enmity between their fathers, dared not count on their becoming reconciled. besides, her vanity was stimulated by the vague romantic hope of at last seeing the lord of tugilovo at the feet of the daughter of a village blacksmith. suddenly something happened which came near to change the course of their true love. one of those cold bright mornings so common in our russian autumns ivan berestoff came a-riding. for all emergencies he brought with him six pointers and a dozen beaters. that same morning grigori muromsky, tempted by the fine weather, saddled his english mare and came trotting through his agricultural estates. nearing the[pg 171] wood he came upon his neighbour proudly seated in the saddle wearing his fur-lined overcoat. ivan berestoff was waiting for the hare which the beaters were driving with discordant noises out of the brushwood. if muromsky could have foreseen this meeting he would have avoided it. but finding himself suddenly within pistol-shot there was no escape. like a cultivated european gentleman, muromsky rode up to and addressed his enemy politely. berestoff answered with the grace of a chained bear dancing to the order of his keeper. at this moment out shot the hare and scudded across the field. berestoff and his groom shouted to loose the dogs, and started after them full speed. muromsky's mare took fright and bolted. her rider, who often boasted of his horsemanship, gave her her head and chuckled inwardly over this opportunity of escaping a disagreeable companion. but the mare coming at a gallop to an unseen ditch swerved. muromsky lost his seat, fell rather heavily on the frozen ground, and lay there cursing the animal, which, sobered by the loss of her master, stopped at once. berestoff galloped to the rescue, asking if muromsky was hurt. meanwhile the groom led up the culprit by the bridle. berestoff helped muromsky into the saddle and then invited him to his house. peeling himself under an obligation muromsky could not refuse, and so berestoff returned in[pg 172] glory, having killed the hare and bringing home with him his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner of war.
at breakfast the neighbours fell into rather friendly conversation; muromsky asked berestoff to lend him a droshky, confessing that his fall made it too painful for him to ride back. berestoff accompanied him to the outer gate, and before the leavetaking was over muromsky pad obtained from him a promise to come and bring alexis to a friendly dinner at prelutchina next day. so this old enmity which seemed before so deeply rooted was on the point of ending because the little mare had taken fright.
lisa ran to meet per father on his return.
"what has happened, papa?" she asked in astonishment. "why are you limping? where is the mare? whose droshki is this?"
"my dear, you will never guess;"—and then he told per.
lisa could not believe per ears. before she pad time to collect herself she heard that to-morrow both the berestoffs would come to dinner.
"what do you say?" she exclaimed, turning pale. "the berestoffs, father and son! dine with us to-morrow! no, papa, you can do as you please, i certainly do not appear."
"why? are you mad? since when have you[pg 173] become so shy? have you imbibed hereditary hatred like a heroine of romance? come, don't be afoot."
"no, papa, nothing on earth shall induce me to meet the berestoffs."
her father shrugged his shoulders, and left off arguing. he knew he could not prevail with her by opposition, so he went to bed after his memorable ride. lisa, too, went to her room, and summoned nastia. long did they discuss the coming visit. what will alexis think on recognising in the cultivated young lady his akulina? what opinion will he form as to her behaviour and her sense? on the other hand, lisa was very curious to see how such an unexpected meeting would affect him. then an idea struck her. she told it to nastia, and with rejoicing they determined to carry it into effect.
next morning at breakfast muromsky asked his daughter whether she still meant to hide from the berestoffs.
"papa," she answered, "i will receive them if you wish it, on one condition. however i may appear before them, whatever i may do, you must promise me not to be angry, and you must show no surprise or disapproval."
"at your tricks again!" exclaimed muromsky, laughing. "well, well, i consent; do as you please, my black-eyed mischief."[pg 174] with these words he kissed her forehead, and lisa ran off to make her preparations.
punctually at two, six horses, drawing the home-made carriage, drove into the courtyard, and skirted the circle of green turf that formed its centre.
old berestoff, helped by two of muromsky's servants in livery, mounted the steps. his son followed immediately on horseback, and the two together entered the dining-room, where the table was already laid.
muromsky gave his guests a cordial welcome, and proposing a tour of inspection of the garden and live stock before dinner, led them along his well-swept gravel paths.
old berestoff secretly deplored the time and trouble wasted on such a useless whim as this anglo-mania, but politeness forbade him to express his feelings.
his son shared neither the disapproval of the careful farmer, nor the enthusiasm of the complacent anglo-maniac. he impatiently awaited the appearance of his hosts daughter, of whom he had often heard; for, though his heart as we know was no longer free, a young and unknown beauty might still claim his interest.
when they had come back and were all seated in the drawing-room, the old men talked over bygone days, re-telling the stories of the mess-room,[pg 175] while alexis considered what attitude he should assume towards lisa. he decided upon a cold preoccupation as most suitable, and arranged accordingly.
the door opened, he turned his head round with indifference—with such proud indifference—that the heart of the most hardened coquette must have quivered. unfortunately there came in not lisa but elderly miss jackson, whitened, laced in, with downcast eyes and her little curtsey, and alexis' magnificent military movement failed. before he could reassemble his scattered forces the door opened again and this time entered lisa. all rose, muromsky began the introductions, but suddenly stopped and bit his lip. lisa, his dark lisa, was painted white up to her ears, and pencilled worse than miss jackson herself. she wore false fair ringlets, puffed out like a louis xiv. wig; her sleeves à l'imbécille extended like the hoops of madame de pompadour. her figure was laced in like a letter x, and all those of her mother's diamonds which had escaped the pawnbroker sparkled on her fingers, neck, and ears. alexis could not discover in this ridiculous young lady his akulina. his father kissed her hand, and he, much to his annoyance, had to do the same. as he touched her little white fingers they seemed to tremble. he noticed, too, a tiny foot intentionally displayed and shod in the most coquettish of[pg 176] shoes. this reconciled him a little to the rest of her attire. the white paint and black pencilling—to tell the truth—in his simplicity he did not notice at first, nor indeed afterwards.
grigori muromsky, remembering his promise, tried not to show surprise; for the rest, he was so much amused at his daughter's mischief, that he could scarcely keep his countenance. for the prim englishwoman, however, it was no laughing matter. she guessed that the white and black paint had been abstracted from her drawer, and a red patch of indignation shone through the artificial whiteness of her face. flaming glances shot from her eyes at the young rogue, who, reserving all explanation for the future, pretended not to notice them. they sat down to table, alexis continuing his performance as an absent-minded pensive man. lisa was all affectation. she minced her words, drawled, and would speak only in french. her father glanced at her from time to time, unable to divine her object, but he thought it all a great joke. the englishwoman fumed, but said nothing. ivan berestoff alone felt at his ease. he ate for two, drank his fill, and as the meal went on became more and more friendly, and laughed louder and louder.
at last they rose from the table. the guests departed and muromsky gave vent to his mirth and curiosity.
[pg 177]
"what made you play such tricks upon them?" he inquired. "do you know, lisa, that white paint really becomes you? i do not wish to pry into the secrets of a lady's toilet, but if i were you i should always paint, not too much, of course, but a little."
lisa was delighted with her success. she kissed her father, promised to consider his suggestion, and ran off to propitiate the enraged miss jackson, whom she could scarcely prevail upon to open the door and hear her excuses.
lisa was ashamed, she said, to show herself before the visitors—such a blackamoor. she had not dared to ask; she knew dear kind miss jackson would forgive her.
miss jackson, persuaded that her pupil had not meant to ridicule her, became pacified, kissed lisa, and in token of forgiveness presented her with a little pot of english white, which the latter, with expressions of deep gratitude, accepted.
next morning, as the reader will have guessed, lisa hastened to the meeting in the wood.
"you were yesterday at our master's, sir?" she began to alexis. "what did you think of our young lady?"
alexis answered that he had not observed her.
"that is a pity."
"why?"
[pg 178]
"because i wanted to ask you if what they say is true."
"what do they say?"
"that i resemble our young lady; do you think so?"
"what nonsense, she is a deformity beside you!"
"oh! barin, it is a sin of you to say so. our young lady is so fair, so elegant! how can i vie with her?"
alexis vowed that she was prettier than all imaginable fair young ladies, and to appease her thoroughly, began describing her young lady so funnily that lisa burst into a hearty laugh.
"still," she said, with a sigh, "though she may be ridiculous, yet by her side i am an illiterate fool."
"well, that is a thing to worry yourself about. if you like i will teach you to read at once."
"are you in earnest, shall i really try?"
"if you like, my darling, we will begin at once."
they sat down. alexis produced a pencil and note-book, and akulina proved astonishingly quick in learning the alphabet. alexis wondered at her intelligence. at their next meeting she wished to learn to write. the pencil at first would not obey her, but in a few minutes she could trace the letters pretty well.
[pg 179]
"how wonderfully we get on, faster than by the lancaster method."
indeed, at the third lesson akulina could read words of even three syllables, and the intelligent remarks with which she interrupted the lessons fairly astonished alexis. as for writing she covered a whole page with aphorisms, taken from the story she had been reading. a week passed and they had begun a correspondence. their post-office was the trunk of an old oak, and nastia secretly played the part of postman. thither alexis would bring his letters, written in a large round hand, and there he found the letters of his beloved scrawled on coarse blue paper. akulina's style was evidently improving, and her mind clearly was developing under cultivation.
meanwhile the new-made acquaintance between berestoff and muromsky grew stronger, soon it became friendship. muromsky often reflected that on the death of old berestoff his property would come to alexis, who would then be one of the richest landowners in that province. why should he not marry lisa? old berestoff, on the other hand, though he looked on his neighbour as a lunatic, did not deny that he possessed many excellent qualities, among them a certain cleverness. muromsky was related to count pronsky, a distinguished and influential man. the count might be very useful to alexis, and muromsky[pg 180] (so thought berestoff) would probably be glad to marry his daughter so well. both the old men pondered all this so thoroughly that at last they broached the subject, confabulated, embraced, and severally began a plan of campaign. muromsky foresaw one difficulty—how to persuade his betty to make the better acquaintance of alexis, whom she had never seen since the memorable dinner. they hardly seemed to suit each other well. at any rate alexis had not renewed his visit to prelutchina. whenever old berestoff called lisa made a point of retreating to her own room.
"but," thought muromsky, "if alexis called every day betty could not help falling in love with him. that is the way to manage it. time will settle everything."
berestoff troubled himself less about his plans. that same evening he called his son into his study, lit his pipe, and, after a short silence, began:
"you have not spoken about the army lately, alexis. has the hussar uniform lost its attraction for you?"
"no, father," he replied respectfully. "i know you do not wish me to join the hussars. it is my duty to consult your wishes."
"i am pleased to find you such an obedient son, still i do not wish to force your inclinations.[pg 181] i will not insist upon your entering the civil service at once; and in the meantime i mean to marry you."
"to whom, father?" exclaimed his astonished son.
"to lisa muromskaia; she is good enough for any one, isn't she?"
"father, i did not think of marrying just yet."
"perhaps not, but i have thought about it for you."
"as you please, but i don't care about lisa muromskaia at all."
"you will care about her afterwards. you will get used to her, and you will learn to love her."
"i feel i could not make her happy."
"you need not trouble yourself about that. all you have to do is to respect the wishes of your father."
"i do not wish to marry, and i won't."
"you shall marry or i will curse you; and, by heaven, i will sell and squander my property, and not leave you a farthing! i will give you three days for reflection, and, in the meanwhile, do not dare to show your face in my presence."
alexis knew that when his father took a thing into his head nothing could knock it out again; but then alexis was as obstinate as his father.[pg 182] he went to his room and there reflected upon the limits of parental authority, on lisa muromskaia, his father's threat to make him a beggar, and finally he thought of akulina.
for the first time he clearly saw how much he loved her. the romantic idea of marrying a peasant girl and working for a living came into his mind; and the more he thought of it, the more he approved it. their meetings in the wood had been stopped of late by the wet weather.
he wrote to akulina in the roundest hand and the maddest style, telling her of his impending ruin, and asking her to be his wife. he took the letter at once to the tree trunk, dropped it in, and went much satisfied with himself to bed.
next morning, firm in resolution, he started early to call on muromsky and explain the situation. he meant to win him over by appealing to his generosity.
"is mr. muromsky at home?" he asked reining up his horse at the porch.
"no, sir, mr. muromsky went out early this morning."
how provoking, thought alexis.
"well, is miss lisa at home?"
"yes, sir."
and throwing the reins to the footman, alexis leapt from his horse and entered unannounced.
[pg 183]
"it will soon be over," he thought, going towards the drawing-room. "i will explain to miss muromsky herself." he entered ... and was transfixed. lisa!... no, akulina, dear, dark akulina, wearing no sarafan but a white morning frock, sat by the window reading his letter. so intent was she upon it that she did not hear him enter. alexis could not repress a cry of delight. lisa started, raised her hand, cried out, and attempted to run away. he rushed to stop her. "akulina! akulina!" lisa tried to free herself.
"mais laissez moi donc, monsieur! mais êtes vous fou?" she repeated, turning away.
"akulina! my darling akulina!" he repeated, kissing her hand.
miss jackson, who was an eye-witness of this scene, knew not what to think. the door opened and grigori muromsky entered.
"ah!" cried he, "you seem to have settled things between you."...
the reader will excuse me the unnecessary trouble of winding up.
[pg 184]
kirdjali.
kirdjali was by birth a bulgarian.
kirdjali, in turkish, means a bold fellow, a knight-errant.
kirdjali with his depredations brought terror upon the whole of moldavia. to give some idea of him i will relate one of his exploits. one night he and the arnout michailaki fell together upon a bulgarian village. they set fire to it from both ends and went from hut to hut, kirdjali killing, while michailaki carried off the plunder. both cried, "kirdjali! kirdjali!" and the whole village ran.
when alexander ipsilanti proclaimed the insurrection and began raising his army, kirdjali brought him several of his old followers. they knew little of the real object of the hetairi. but war presented an opportunity for getting rich at the expense of the turks, and perhaps of the moldavians too.
alexander ipsilanti was personally brave, but[pg 185] he was wanting in the qualities necessary for playing the part he had with such eager recklessness assumed. he did not know how to manage the people under his command. they had neither respect for him nor confidence.
after the unfortunate battle, when the flower of greek youth fell, jordaki olimbisti advised him to retire, and himself took his place. ipsilanti escaped to the frontiers of austria, whence he sent his curse to the people whom he now stigmatised as mutineers, cowards, and blackguards. these cowards and blackguards mostly perished within the walls of the monastery of seke, or on the banks of the pruth, defending themselves desperately against a foe ten times their number.
kirdjali belonged to the detachment commanded by george cantacuzène, of whom might be repeated what has already been said of ipsilanti.
on the eve of the battle near skuliana, cantacuzène asked permission of the russian authorities to enter their quarters. the band was left without a commander. but kirdjali, sophianos, cantagoni, and others had no need of a commander.
the battle of skuliana seems not to have been described by any one in all its pathetic truth. just imagine seven hundred arnouts, albanians, greeks, bulgarians, and every kind of rabble, with no notion of military art, retreating within[pg 186] sight of fifteen thousand turkish cavalry. the band kept close to the banks of the pruth, placing in front two tiny cannons, found at jassy, in the courtyard of the hospodar, and which had formerly been used for firing salutes on festive occasions.
the turks would have been glad to use their cartridges, but dared not without permission from the russian authorities; for the shots would have been sure to fly over to our banks. the commander of the russian military post (now dead), though he had been forty years in the army, had never heard the whistle of a bullet; but he was fated to hear it now. several bullets buzzed passed his ears. the old man got very angry and began to swear at ohotsky, major of one of the infantry battalions. the major, not knowing what to do, ran towards the river, on the other side of which some insurgent cavalry were capering about. he shook his finger at them, on which they turned round and galloped along, with the whole turkish army after them. the major who had shaken his finger was called hortchevsky. i don't know what became of him. the next day, however, the turks attacked the arnouts. hot daring to use cartridges or cannon balls, they resolved, contrary to their custom, to employ cold steel. the battle was fierce. the combatants slashed and stabbed one another.
[pg 187]
the turks were seen with lances, which, hitherto they had never possessed, and these lances were russian. our nekrassoff refugees were fighting in their ranks. the hetairi, thanks to the permission of our emperor, were allowed to cross the pruth and seek the protection of our garrison. they began to cross the river, cantagoni and sophianos being the last to quit the turkish bank; kirdjali, wounded the day before, was already lying in russian quarters. sophianos was killed. cantagoni, a very stout man, was wounded with a spear in his stomach. with one hand he raised his sword, with the other he seized the enemy's spear, pushed it deeper into himself, and by that means was able to reach his murderer with his own sword, when they fell together.
all was over. the turks remained victorious, moldavia was cleared of insurgents. about six hundred arnouts were scattered over bessarabia. unable to obtain the means of subsistence, they still felt grateful to russia for her protection. they led an idle though not a dissolute life. they could be seen in coffee-houses of half turkish bessarabia, with long pipes in their mouths sipping thick coffee out of small cups. their figured zouave jackets and red slippers with pointed toes were beginning to look shabby. but they still wore their tufted scull-cap on one side of the head; and daggers and pistols still[pg 188] protruded from beneath, their broad girdles. no one complained of them. it was impossible to imagine that these poor, peaceable fellows were the celebrated pikemen of moldavia, the followers of the ferocious kirdjali, and that he himself had been one of them.
the pasha governing jassy heard of all this, and, on the basis of treaty rights, requested the russian authorities to deliver up the brigand. the police made inquiries, and found that kirdjali really was at kishineff. they captured him in the house of a runaway monk in the evening, while he was at supper, sitting in the twilight with seven comrades.
kirdjali was arraigned. he did not attempt to conceal the truth. he owned he was kirdjali.
"but," he added, "since i crossed the pruth, i have not touched a hair of property that did not belong to me, nor have i cheated the meanest gipsy. to the turks, the moldavians, and the walachians i am certainly a brigand, but to the russians a guest. when sophianos, after exhausting all his cartridges, came over here, he collected buttons from the uniforms, nails, watch-chains, and nobs from the daggers for the final discharge, and i myself handed him twenty beshléks to fire off, leaving myself without money. god is my witness that i, kirdjali, lived by[pg 189] charity. why then do the russians now hand me over to my enemies?"
after that kirdjali was silent, and quietly awaited his fate. it was soon announced to him. the authorities, not thinking themselves hound to look upon brigandage from its romantic side, and admitting the justice of the turkish demand, ordered kirdjali to be given up that he might be sent to jassy.
a man of brains and feeling, at that time young and unknown, but now occupying an important post, gave me a graphic description of kirdjali's departure.
"at the gates of the prison," he said, "stood a hired karutsa. perhaps you don't know what a karutsa is? it is a low basket-carriage, to which quite recently used to be harnessed six or eight miserable screws. a moldavian, with a moustache and a sheepskin hat, sitting astride one of the horses, cried out and cracked his whip every moment, and his wretched little beasts went on at a sharp trot. if one of them began to lag, then he unharnessed it with terrific cursing and left it on the road, not caring what became of it. on the return journey he was sure to find them in the same place, calmly grazing on the steppes. frequently a traveller starting from a station with eight horses would arrive at the next with a pair only. it was so about fifteen years ago. now in[pg 190] russianized bessarabia, russian harness and russian telegas (carts) have been adopted.
"such a karutsa as i have described stood at the gate of the jail in 1821, towards the end of september. jewesses with their sleeves hanging down and with flapping slippers, arnouts in ragged but picturesque costumes, stately moldavian women with black-eyed children in their arms, surrounded the harutsa. the men maintained silence. the women were excited, as if expecting something to happen.
"the gates opened, and several police officers stepped into the street, followed by two soldiers leading kirdjali in chains.
"he looked about thirty. the features of his dark face were regular and austere. he was tall, broad-shouldered, and seemed to possess great physical strength. he wore a variegated turban on the side of his head, and a broad sash round his slender waist. a dolman of thick, dark blue cloth, the wide plaits of his over-shirt falling just above the knees, and a pair of handsome slippers completed his dress. his bearing was calm and haughty.
"one of the officials, a red-faced old man in a faded uniform, with three buttons hanging loose, a pair of lead spectacles which pinched a crimson knob doing duty for a nose, unrolled a paper, and stooping, began to read in the moldavian tongue.[pg 191] from time to time he glanced haughtily at the handcuffed kirdjali, to whom apparently the document referred. kirdjali listened attentively. the official finished his reading, folded the paper, and called out sternly to the people, ordering them to make way for the karutsa to drive up. then kirdjali, turning towards him, said a few words in moldavian; his voice trembled, his countenance changed, he burst into tears, and fell at the feet of the police officer, with a clanking of his chains. the police officer, in alarm, started back; the soldiers were going to raise kirdjali, but he got up of his own accord, gathered up his chains, and stepping into the harutsa, cried egaida!'
"the gens d'armes got in by his side, the moldavian cracked his whip, and the karutsa rolled away.
"what was kirdjali saying to you? inquired a young official of the police officer.
"he asked me," replied the officer, smiling, "to take care of his wife and child, who live a short distance from kilia, in a bulgarian village; he is afraid they might suffer through him. the rabble are so ignorant!'"
the young official's story affected me greatly. i was sorry for poor kirdjali. for a long while i knew nothing of his fate. many years afterwards i met the young official. we began talking of old times.
[pg 192]
"how about your friend kirdjali?" i asked. "do you know what became of him?"
"of course i do," he replied, and he told me the following.
after being brought to jassy, kirdjali was taken before the pasha, who condemned him to be impaled. the execution was postponed till some feast day. meanwhile he was put in confinement. the prisoner was guarded by seven turks—common people, and at the bottom of their hearts brigands like himself. they respected him and listened with the eagerness of true orientals to his wonderful stories. between the guards and their prisoner a close friendship sprang up. on one occasion kirdjali said to them:
"brothers! my hour is near. no one can escape his doom. i shall soon part from you, and i should like to leave you something in remembrance of me." the turks opened their ears.
"brothers;" added kirdjali, "three years back, when i was engaged in brigandage with the late mihailaki, we buried in the steppes, not far from jassy, a kettle with some coins in it. seemingly, neither he nor i will ever possess that treasure. so be it; take it to yourselves and divide it amicably."
the turks nearly went crazy. they began considering how they could find the spot so vaguely[pg 193] indicated. they thought and thought, and at last decided that kirdjali must himself show them.
night set in. the turks took off the fetters that weighed upon the prisoner's feet, hound his hands with a rope, and taking him with them, started for the steppes. kirdjali led them, going in a straight line from one mound to another. they walked about for some time. at last kirdjali stopped close to a broad stone, measured a dozen steps to the south, stamped, and said, "here."
the turks arranged themselves for work. four took out their daggers and began digging the earth, while three remained on guard. kirdjali sat down on the stone, and looked on.
"well, now, shall you be long?" he inquired; "have you found it?"
"not yet," replied the turks, and they worked away till the perspiration rolled like hail from them.
kirdjali grew impatient.
"what people!" he exclaimed; "they can't even dig decently. why, i should have found it in two minutes. children! untie my hands, and give me a dagger."
the turks reflected, and began to consult with one another.
"why not?" they concluded. "we will release his hands, and give him a dagger. what can it matter? he is only one, while we are seven."
[pg 194]
and the turks unbound his bands and gave him a dagger.
at last kirdjali was free and armed. what must have been his sensations. he began digging rapidly, the guard assisting. suddenly he thrust his dagger into one of them, leaving the blade sticking in the man's breast; he snatched from his girdle a couple of pistols.
the remaining six, seeing kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran away.
kirdjali is now carrying on his brigandage near jassy. not long ago he wrote to the hospodar, demanding from him five thousand louis, and threatening, in the event of the money not being paid, to set fire to jassy, and to reach the hospodar himself. the five thousand louis were forwarded to him.
a fine fellow kirdjali!
[pg 195]
the history of the village of gorohina.
of all professions that of a man of letters has always seemed to me most enviable.
my parents, respectable but humble folk, had been brought up in the old fashion. they never read anything; and beyond an alphabet (bought for me), an almanack, and the latest letter-writer, they had no books in the house.
the letter-writer had long provided me with entertainment. i knew it by heart, yet daily found in it fresh beauties; and next to general n——, to whom my father had been aide-de-camp, kurganoff, its author, was, in my estimation, one of the greatest men. i questioned everyone about him; but unhappily no one could gratify my curiosity. nobody knew him personally. to all my questioning the reply was that kurganoff was the author of the latest letter-writer, but that i[pg 196] knew already. he was wrapped in darkness and mystery like some ancient demi-god. at times i doubted even his existence. his name was perhaps an invention, the legend about him an empty myth awaiting the investigation of some new niebuhr. nevertheless he dogged my imagination. i tried to give some form to this very personage, and finally decided that he must be like the land-judge, koriuchkin, a little old man with a red nose and glittering eyes.
in 1812 i was taken to moscow and placed at a boarding school belonging to karl ivanovitch meyer. there i stayed only some three months, because the school broke up in anticipation of the enemy's coming. i returned to the country.
this epoch of my life was to me so important that i shall dilate upon it, apologizing beforehand if i trespass upon the good nature of the reader.
it was a dull autumn day. on reaching the station whence i must turn off to gorohina (that was the name of our village) i engaged horses, and drove off by the country road. though naturally calm, so impatient was i to revisit the scenes where i had passed the best years of my life, that i kept urging the driver to quicken speed with alternate promises of vodka and threats of chastisement. how much easier it was to belabour him than to unloose my purse.[pg 197] i own i struck him twice or thrice, a thing i had never done in my life before. i don't know why, but i had a great liking for drivers as a class.
the driver urged his troika to a quicker pace, but to me it seemed that public-driver-like he coaxed the horses and waved his whip but at the same time tightened the reins. at last i caught sight of gorohina wood, and in ten minutes more we drove into the courtyard of the manor house.
my heart beat violently. i looked round with unwonted emotion. for eight years i had not seen gorohina. the little birches which i had seen planted near the palings had now grown into tall branching trees. the courtyard, once adorned with three regular flower beds divided by broad gravel paths, was now an unmown meadow, the grazing land of a red cow.
my britchka stopped at the front door. my servant went to open it, but it was fastened; yet the shutters were open, and the house seemed to be inhabited. a woman emerging from a servant's hut asked what i wanted. hearing the master had arrived, she ran back into the hut, and soon i had all the inhabitants of the courtyard around me. i was deeply touched to see the known and unknown faces, and i greeted each with a friendly kiss.
[pg 198]
the boys my playmates had grown to men. the girls who used to squat upon the floor and run with such alacrity on errands were married women. the men wept. to the women i said unceremoniously:
"how you have aged." and they answered sadly:
"and you, little father, how plain you have grown."
they led me towards the back entrance; i was met by my old wet-nurse, by whom i was welcomed back with sobs and tears, like the much-suffering ulysses. they hastened to heat the bath. the cook, who in his long holiday had grown a beard, offered to cook my dinner or supper, for it was growing dark. the rooms hitherto occupied by my nurse and my late mother's maids were at once got ready for me. thus i found myself in the humble home of my parents, and fell asleep in that room where three-and-twenty years before i had been born.
some three weeks passed in business of various kinds. i was engaged with land judges, presidents, and every imaginable official of the province. finally i got possession of my inheritance. i was contented: but soon the dulness of inaction began to torment me. i was not yet acquainted with my kind and venerable neighbour n—— domestic occupations were altogether[pg 199] strange to me. the conversation of my nurse, whom i promoted to the rank of housekeeper, consisted of fifteen family anecdotes. i found them very interesting, but as she always related them in the same way she soon became for me another niebuhr letter-writer, in which i knew precisely on what page every particular line occurred. that worthy book i found in the storeroom among a quantity of rubbish sadly dilapidated. i brought it out into the light and began to read it; but kurganoff had lost his charm. i read him through once more and never after opened him again.
in this extremity it struck me:
"why not write myself?" the reader has been already told that i was educated on copper money. besides, to become an author seemed so difficult, so unattainable, that the idea of writing quite frightened me at first. dare i hope ever to be numbered amongst writers, when my ardent wish even to meet one had not yet been gratified? this reminds me of something which i shall tell to show my unbounded enthusiasm for my native literature.
in 1820, while yet an ensign, i chanced to be on government business at petersburg. i stayed a week; and although i had not one acquaintance in he place, i passed the time very pleasantly. i went daily to the theatre, modestly to the fourth[pg 200] row in the gallery. i learnt the names of all the actors and fell passionately in love with b——. she had played one sunday with great artistic feeling as eulalie in hass und reue (in english the stranger.) in the morning, on my way from headquarters, i would call at a small confectioner's, drink a cup of chocolate, and read a literary journal. one day, while thus deep in an article "by goodintention, some one in a pea-green greatcoat suddenly approached and gently withdrew the hamburg gazette from under my newspaper. i was so occupied that i did not look up. the stranger ordered a steak and sat down facing me. i went on reading without noticing him.
meanwhile he finished his luncheon, scolded the waiter for some carelessness, drank half a bottle of wine, and left. two young men were also lunching.
"do you know who that was?" inquired one of them.
"that was goodintention ... the writer."
"the writer!" i exclaimed involuntarily, and leaving the article unread and the cup of chocolate undrunk, i hastily paid my reckoning, and without waiting for the change rushed into the street. looking round i descried in the distance the pea-green coat and dashed along the nevsky prospect almost at a run. when i had gone several steps i[pg 201] felt myself stopped by some one, and looking back i found i had been noticed by an officer of the guards. i; ought not to have knocked against him on the pavement, but rather to have stopped and saluted. after this reprimand i was more careful. unluckily i met an officer every moment, and every moment i had to stop, while the author got farther and farther away. never before had my soldier's overcoat proved so irksome, never had epaulettes appeared so enviable. at last near the annitchkin bridge i came up with the pea-green greatcoat.
"may i inquire," i said, saluting, "are you mr. goodintention, whose excellent article i have had the pleasure of reading in the zealous enlightener?"
"not at all," he replied. "i am not a writer but a lawyer. but i know goodintention very well. a quarter of an hour ago i passed him at the police bridge." in this way my respect for russian letters cost me 80 kopecks of change, an official reprimand, and a narrow escape of arrest, and all in vain.
in spite of all the protest of my reason, the audacious thought of becoming a writer kept recurring. at last, unable longer to resist it, i made a thick copy book and resolved to fill it somehow. all kinds of poems (humble prose did not yet enter into my reckoning) were in turn[pg 202] considered and approved. i decided to write an epic furnished on russian history. i was not long in finding a hero. i chose rurik, and i set to work.
i had acquired a certain aptitude for rhymes, by copying those in manuscript which used to circulate among our officers, such as the criticism on the moscow boulevards, the presnensky ponds, and the dangerous neighbour. in spite of that my poem progressed slowly, and at the third verse i dropped it. i concluded that the epic was not my style, and began rurik, a tragedy. the tragedy halted. i turned it into a ballad, but the ballad hardly seemed to do. at last i had a happy thought. i began and succeeded in finishing an ode to a portrait of rurik. despite the inauspicious character of such a title, particularly for a young bard's first work, i yet felt that i had not been born a poet, and after this first attempt desisted. these essays in authorship gave me so great a taste for writing that i could now no longer abstain from paper and ink. i could descend to prose. but at first i wished to avoid the preliminary construction of a plot and the connection of parts. i resolved to write detached thoughts without any connection or order, just as they struck me. unfortunately the thoughts would not come, and in the course of two whole days the only thought that struck me was the following:
[pg 203]
he who disobeys reason and yields to the inclination of his passions often goes wrong and ends by repenting when it is too late.
this though no doubt true enough was not original.
abandoning aphorism i took to tales; but being too unpractised in arranging incidents i selected such remarkable occurrences as i had heard of at various times and tried to ornament the truth by a lively style and the flowers of my own imagination. composing these tales little by little, i formed my style and learnt to express myself correctly, pleasantly, and freely. my stock was soon exhausted, and i again began to seek a subject.
to abandon these childish anecdotes of doubtful authenticity, and narrate real and great events instead, was an idea by which i had long been haunted.
to be the judge, the observer, and the prophet of ages and of peoples seemed to me a most attainable object of ambition to a writer. what history could i write—i with my pitiable education? where was i not forestalled by highly cultivated and conscientious men? what history had they left unexhausted. should i write a universal history? but was there not already the immortal work of abbé millot. a national history of russia, what could i say after tatishtcheff bolitin and golikoff? and was it for me to burrow amongst records and[pg 204] to penetrate the occult meaning of a dead language—for me who could never master the slavonian alphabet? why not try a history on a smaller scale?—for instance, the history of our town! but even here how very numerous and insuperable seemed the obstacles—a journey to the town, a visit to the governor and the bishop, permission to examine the archives, the monastery, the cellars, and so on. the history of our town would have been easier; but it could interest neither the philosopher nor the artist, and afford but little opening for eloquence. the only noteworthy record in its annals relates to a terrible fire ten years ago which burnt the bazaar and the courts of justice. an accident settled my doubts. a woman hanging linen in a loft found an old basket full of shavings, dust, and books. the whole household knew my passion for reading. my housekeeper while i sat over my paper gnawing my pen and meditating on the experience of country prophets entered triumphantly dragging a basket into my room, and bringing joyfully "books! books!"
books! i repeated in delight as i rushed to the basket. actually a pile of them with covers of green and of blue paper. it was a collection of old almanacks. my ardour was cooled by the discovery, still they were books, and i generously rewarded her pains with half a silver ruble.
when she had gone i began to examine my[pg 205] almanacks; i soon became absorbed. they formed a complete series from 1744 to 1799 including exactly 55 years. the blue sheets of paper usually bound in the almanacks were covered with old-fashioned handwriting. skimming these lines i noticed with surprise that besides remarks on the weather and accounts they contained scraps of historical information about the village of gorohina. among these valuable documents i began my researches, and soon found that they presented a full history of my native place for nearly a century, in chronological order, besides an exhaustive store of economical, statistical, meteorological, and other learned information. thenceforth the study of these documents took up my time, for i perceived that from them a stately, instructive, and interesting history could be made. as i became sufficiently acquainted with these valuable notes, i began to search for new sources of information about the village of gorohina, and i soon became astonished at the wealth of material. after devoting six months to a preliminary study of them, i at last began the long wished for work; and by god's grace completed the same on the 3rd of november, 1827. to-day, like a fellow-historian, whose name i do not recollect, having finished my hard task, i lay down my pen and sadly walk into my garden to meditate upon my performance. it seems even to me that now the[pg 206] history of gorohina is finished i am no longer wanted in the world. my task is ended; and it is time for me to die.
i add a list of the sources whence i drew the history of gorohina.
i. a collection of ancient almanacks in fifty fifty—five parts. of these the first twenty are covered with an old-fashioned writing; much abbreviated. the manuscript is that of my grandfather; andrei stepanovitch belkin; and is remarkably clear and concise. for example: 4th of may. snow.
trishka for his impertinence beaten. 6th. the red cow died. senka for drunkenness beaten. 8th. a fine day. 9th. rain and snow. trishka for drunkenness beaten.... and so on without comment. 11th. the weather fine, first snow; hunted three hares. the remaining thirty-five parts were in various hands mostly commercial with or without abbreviations, usually profuse; disjointed; and incorrectly written. here and there a feminine handwriting appeared. in these years occurred my grandfather's notes about his wife bupraxic aleksevna; others written by her and others by the steward grobovitsky.
ii. the notes of the gorohina church clerk. this curious manuscript was discovered by me at the house of my priest; who has married the daughter of the writer. the first earlier sheets[pg 207] had been torn out and used by the priests children for making kites. one of these had fallen in the middle of my yard. i picked it up? and was about to restore it to the children when i noticed that it was written on. from the first lines i saw that the kite was made out of some one's journal. luckily i was in time to save the rest. these journals, which i got for a measure of oats, are remarkable for depth of thought and dignity of expression.
iii. oral legends. i despised no source of information, but i am specially indebted for much of this to agrafena tryphonovna, the mother of avdei the starosta and reputed mistress of the steward grobovitsky.
iv. registry reports with remarks by the former starosta on the morality and condition of the peasants.
"31st october, 1830. fabulous times. the starosta tryphon."
the foundation of gorohina and the history of its original inhabitants are lost in obscurity. dark legend tells how that gorohina was once a large and wealthy village, that all its inhabitants were rich, that the obrok (the land proprietor's tithes) was collected once a year and carted off in loads no one knew to whom. at that time everything was bought cheap and sold dear. there were no stewards, and the elders dealt fairly by[pg 208] all. the inhabitants worked little and lived merrily. the shepherds as they watched their flocks wore boots. we must not be deceived by this charming picture. the notion of a golden age is common to all nations, and only proves that as people are never contented with the present, and derive from experience small hope for the future, they adorn the irrevocable past with all the hues of fancy. what is certain, however, is that the village of gorohina from ancient times has belonged to the distinguished race of belkins. but these ancestors of mine had many other estates, and paid but little attention to this remote village. gorohina paid small tithe and was managed by elders elected by the people in common council.
at that early period the inheritance of the belkins was broken up, and fell in value. the impoverished grandchildren of the rich grandsire, unable to give up their luxurious habits, required from an estate now only producing one tenth of its former revenue the full income of former times. threats followed threats. the starosta read them out in common council. the elders declaimed, the commune agitated, and the masters, instead of the double tithes, received tiresome excuses and humble complaints written on dirty paper and sealed with a polushka (less than a farthing).
a sombre cloud hung over gorohina; but no[pg 209] one heeded it. in the last year of tryphon's power, the last of the starostas chosen by the people, the day of the church festival, when the whole population either crowded noisily round the house of entertainment (the public-house) or wandered through the streets embracing one another or loudly singing the songs of arhip the bald, there drove into the courtyard a covered hired britchka drawn by a couple of half-dead screws, with a ragged jew upon the box. from the britchka a head in a cap looked out and seemed to peer curiously at the merry-making crowd. the inhabitants greeted the carriage with laughter and rude jokes. with the flaps of their coats turned up the madmen mocked the jewish driver, shouting in doggrell rhyme, "jew, jew, eat a pig's ear." but how great was their astonishment (wrote the clerk) when the carriage stopped in the middle of the village and the occupant jumped out, and in an authoritative voice called for the starosta tryphon. this officer was in the house of pleasure, whence two elders led him forth holding him under the arms. the stranger looked at him sternly, handed him a letter, and told him to read it at once. the starostas of gorohina were in the habit of never reading anything themselves. the rural clerk avdei was sent for. he was found asleep under a hedge and was brought before the stranger. but either from the sudden fright or from a sad[pg 210] fore-boding, the words distinctly written in the letter appeared to him in a mist, and he could not read them. the stranger sent the starosta tryphon and the rural clerk avdei with terrible curses to bed, postponing the reading of the letter till the morrow and entered the office hut, whither the jew carried his small trunk. the people of gorohina looked in amazement at this unusual incident, but the carriage, the stranger, and the jew were quickly forgotten. they ended their day with noise and merriment, and gorohina went to sleep without presentiments of the future.
at sunrise the inhabitants were awakened with knockings at the windows and a call to a meeting of the commune. the citizens one after the other appeared in the courtyard round the office hut, which served as a council ground. their eyes were dim and red, their faces swollen; yawning and scratching their heads, they stared at the man with the cap, in an old blue caftan, standing pompously on the steps of the office hut, while they tried to recollect his features, which they seemed to have seen some time or another.
the starosta and his clerk avdei stood by his side, bareheaded, with the same expression of dejection and sorrow.
"are all here?" inquired the stranger.
"are all here?" repeated the starosta.
"the whole hundred," replied the citizens,[pg 211] when, the starosta informed them that he had received a letter from the master, and, directed the clerk to read it aloud to the commune. avdei stepped forward and read as follows:
n.b. this alarming document, which he kept carefully shut up in the icon-case, together with other memorandum of his authority over the people of gorohina, i copied at the house of tryphon, our starosta.
"tryphon ivanoff,
"the bearer of this letter, my agent.... is going to my patrimony, the village of gorohina, to assume the management of it. directly he arrives assemble the peasants and make known to them their master's wishes; namely, that they are to obey my agent as they would myself, and attend to his orders without demur; otherwise he is empowered to treat them with great severity. i have been forced to take this step by their shameless disobedience and your, tryphon ivanoff, roguish indulgence.
"(signed) nikolai n....
then the agent, with his legs extended like an x and his arms akimbo like a phitab, addressed to them the following pithy speech: "see that you are not too troublesome, or i will certainly beat the folly out of your heads quicker than the fumes of[pg 212] yesterday's drink." there were no longer any fumes left in the head of any man of gorohina. all were dumbfounded, hung their noses, and dispersed in fear to their own houses. the agent seized the reins of government, called for the list of peasants, divided them into rich and poor, and began to carry into effect his political system, which deserves particular description. it was founded upon the following maxims: that the richer a peasant, the more fractious he grows, and the poorer, the quieter.
consequently, like a good christian, i cared most for the peace of the estate.
first, the deficits were distributed among the rich peasants, and were exacted from them with the greatest severity. second, the defaulting or idle hands were forthwith set to plough, and if their labour proved insufficient according to his standard, he assigned them as workmen to the other peasants, who paid him for this a voluntary tax. the men given as bondsmen, on the other hand, possessed the right of redeeming themselves by paying, besides their deficit, a double annual tithe. all the communal obligations were thrown upon the rich peasants. but the recruiting arrangements were the masterpiece of the avaricious ruler, for by turns all the rich peasants bought themselves off, till at last the choice fell upon either the blackguard or the ruined one.
[pg 213]
communal assemblies were abolished. the tithes were collected in small sums and all the year round. the peasants, it seems, did not pay very much more than before, but they could not earn or save enough to pay. in three years gorohina was quite pauperised. gorohina quieted down; the bazaar was empty, the songs of arhip the bald were unsung, one half the men were ploughing in the fields, the other half serving them as bond labourers. the children went begging, and the day of the church fête became, according to the historian, not a day of joy and exultation, but an annual mourning and commemoration of sorrow.
from a gorohina annalist.
the accursed steward put anton timofeieff into irons, but the old man timofei bought his son's freedom for one hundred rubles. the steward then put the irons on petrusha gremeieff, who likewise was ransomed by his father for sixty-eight rubles. the accursed one then wanted to handcuff lech tarassoff, but he escaped into the woods, to the regret of the steward, who vented his rage in words; but sent to town in place of lech tarassoff vanka the drunkard, and gave him for a soldier as a substitute.
