Works of Alexander Pushkin (60 page)

“How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.

“Better, papa,” replied Masha.

“You must have gotten your headache yesterday from charcoal fumes,” said Praskovya Petrovna.

“Very likely, mamma,” replied Masha.

The day passed happily enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. They sent to town for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the sick girl delirious. A violent fever ensued, and for two weeks the poor patient hovered on the brink of the grave.

Nobody in the house knew anything about her intended elopement. The letters written the evening before, had been burnt; and her maid, dreading the wrath of her master, had not whispered a word about it to anybody. The priest, the retired cornet, the mus- tached surveyor, and the little Uhlan were discreet, and not without reason. Teryoshka, the coachman, never uttered one word too much about it, even when he was drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half-a- dozen conspirators.

But Marya Gavrilovna herself divulged her secret during her delirious ravings. Her words were so disconnected, however, that her mother, who never left her bedside, could only understand from them that her daughter was deeply in love with Vladimir Nikolaye- vich, and that probably love was the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her neighbors, and at last it was unanimously decided that such was evidently Marya Gavrilovna’s fate, that a woman cannot escape her destined husband even on horseback, that poverty is not a crime, that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc., etc. Moral maxims are wonderfully useful in those cases where we can invent little in our own justification.

In the meantime the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long time in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich. He was afraid of the usual reception. It was resolved to send and announce to him an unexpected piece of good news: the consent of Marya’s parents to his marriage with their daughter.

But what was the astonishment of the proprietor of Nenaradovo, when, in reply to their invitation, they received from him a half-insane letter. He informed them that he would never set foot in their house again, and begged them to forget an unhappy creature whose only hope was death. A few days afterwards they heard that Vladimir had joined the army again. This was in the year 1812.

For a long time they did not dare to announce this to Masha, who was now convalescent. She never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some months afterwards, finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted away, and it was feared that she would have another attack of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit had no serious consequences.

Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her the heiress to all his property. But the inheritance did not console her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, vowing that she would never leave her. They both quitted Nenaradovo, the scene of so many sad recollections, and went to live on another estate.

Suitors crowded round the charming heiress, but she gave not the slightest hope to any of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her to make a choice; but Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and became pensive. Vladimir no longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed to be held sacred by Masha; at least she treasured up everything that could remind her of him: books that he had once read, his drawings, his music, and verses that he had copied out for her. The neighbors, hearing of all this, were astonished at her constancy, and awaited with curiosity the hero who should at last triumph over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin Artemisia.

Meanwhile the war had ended gloriously. Our regiments returned from abroad, and the people went out to meet them. The bands played the songs of the conquered: “Vive Henri-Quatre,” Tyrolese waltzes and airs from “Joconde.” Officers, who had set out for the war almost mere lads, returned, grown men in the martial air, their breasts hung with crosses. The soldiers chatted gaily among themselves, constantly using French and German words in their speech. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and enthusiasm! How the Russian heart throbbed at the word “Fatherland!” How sweet were the tears of reunion! With what unanimity did we mingle feelings of national pride with love for the Czar! And for him — what a moment!

The women, the Russian women, were then incomparable. Their usual coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating, when welcoming the conquerors they cried “Hurrah!”

“And tossed their caps into the air!”

What officer of that time does not confess that to the Russian women he was indebted for his best and most precious reward?

At this brilliant period Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in the province of — , and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm was, if possible, even greater. The appearance of an officer in those sections was for him a veritable triumph, and the lover in a frock coat fared ill in his vicinity.

We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to withdraw when the wounded Colonel Burmin of the Hussars, with the Order of St.

GEORGE in his button-hole, and with an “interesting pallor,” as the young ladies of the neighborhood observed, appeared at the manor. He was about twenty-six years of age. He had obtained leave of absence to visit HIS estate, which was near that of Marya Gavrilovna. Marya bestowed special attention upon him. In his presence her habitual pensiveness disappeared. It canNOT be said that she flirted with him, but a poet, observING her behavior, would have said:

“Se amor non è, che dunque?”

Burmin was indeed a very charming young man. He had the sort of mind which pleases women: decorous and keen, without any pretensions, and inclined to carefree mockery. His behavior toward Marya Gavrilovna was simple and frank, but whatever she said or did, both his soul and his eyes followed her. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest disposition, though it was reported that he had once been a terrible rake; but this did not injure him in the opinion of Marya Gavrilovna, who — like all young ladies — excused with pleasure follies that gave indication of boldness and ardor of temperament.

But more than everything else- — more than his tenderness, more than his agreeable conversation, more than his interesting pallor, more than his arm in a sling — the silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and imagination. She could not but confess that he pleased her very much; probably he, too, with his intelligence and experience, had already observed that she singled him out; how was it then that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard his declaration? What restrained him? Was it timidity, or pride, or the coquetry of a crafty ladies’ man? It was a puzzle to her. After long reflection, she came to the conclusion that timidity alone was the cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him by greater attention and, if circumstances should render it necessary, even by an exhibition of tenderness. She was preparing a startling denouement, and waited with impatience for the moment of the romantic explanation. A secret, of whatever nature it may be, always presses heavily upon the female heart. Her strategy had the desired success; at least Burmin fell into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested with such fire upon her, that the decisive moment seemed close at hand. The neighbors spoke about the marriage as if it were a settled matter, and good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had at last found a worthy suitor.

On one occasion the old lady was sitting alone in the parlor, playing patience, when Burmin entered the room and immediately inquired for Marya Gavrilovna.

“She is in the garden,” replied the old lady “go out to her, and I will wait here for you.”

Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the cross and thought: “Perhaps the business will be settled today!”

Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna near the pond, under a willow-tree, with a book in her hands, and in a white dress: a veritable heroine of a novel. After the first few questions, Marya Gavrilovna purposely allowed the conversation to drop, thereby increasing their mutual embarrassment, from which there was no possible way of escape except only by a sudden and decisive declaration.

And that is what happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, declared that he had long sought an opportunity to open his heart to her, and requested a moment’s attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed her book and cast down her eyes, as a sign of consent.

“I love you,” said Burmin: “I love you passionately.”

Maria Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still further. “I have acted imprudently in indulging the sweet habit of seeing and hearing you daily....” Marya Gavrilovna recalled to mind the first letter of St. Preux. “But it is now too late to resist my fate; the remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and the consolation of my life, but there still remains a painful duty for me to perform — to reveal to you a terrible secret which will place between us an insurmountable barrier....”

“That barrier has always existed,” interrupted Marya Gavrilovna hastily: “I could never be your wife.”

“I know,” replied he calmly: “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of mourning.... Dear, kind Marya Gavrilovna, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have consented to make me happy, if...”

“Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak. You torture me.”

“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but — I am the most miserable creature under the sun — I am already married!”

Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.

“I am already married,” continued Burmin: “I have been married four years, and I do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I shall ever see her again!’

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. “How very strange! Continue: I will relate to you afterwards.... But continue, I beg of you.”

“At the beginning of the year 1812,” said Burmin, “I was hastening to Vilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving late one evening at one of the post- stations, I ordered the horses to be got ready as quickly PROSE

as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on, and the postmaster and drivers advised me to wait till it had passed over. I followed their advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took possession of me: it seemed as if someone were pushing me forward. Meanwhile the snowstorm did not subside; I could endure it no longer, and again ordering out the horses, I started off at the height of the storm. The driver conceived the idea of following the course of the river, which would shorten our journey by three versts. The banks were covered with snow: the driver drove past the place where we should have come out upon the road, and so we found ourselves in an unknown part of the country.... The storm did not abate; I saw a light in the distance, and I ordered the driver to proceed toward it. We reached a village; in the wooden church there was a light. The church was open. Outside the fence stood several sledges, and people were passing in and out through the porch.

“‘This way! this way!’ cried several voices.

“I ordered the driver to proceed.

“‘In the name of Heaven, where have you been loitering?’ somebody said to me. ‘The bride has fainted away; the priest does not know what to do, and we were just getting ready to go back. Get out as quickly as you can.’

“I got out of the sledge without saying a word, and went into the church, which was feebly lit up by two or three tapers. A young girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another girl was rubbing her temples.

‘“Thank God!’ said the latter, ‘you have come at last. You have almost killed the young lady.’

“The old priest advanced toward me, and said:

“‘Do you wish me to begin?’

“‘Begin, begin, father,’ I replied, absently.

“The young girl was raised up. She seemed to me not at all bad-looking.... Impelled by an incomprehensible, unpardonable levity, I placed myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the priest hurried on; three men and a maid supported the bride and only occupied themselves with her. We were married.

“‘Kiss each other!’ said the witnesses to us.

“My wife turned her pale face toward me. I was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: ‘Oh! it is not he! it is not he!’ and fell in a swoon.

“The witnesses gazed at me in alarm. I turned round and left the church without the least hindrance, flung myself into the
kibitka
and cried: ‘Drive off!’”

“My God!” exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. “And do you not know what became of your poor wife?”

“I do not know,” replied Burmin; “neither do I know the name of the village where I was married, nor the post-station where I set out from. At that time I attached so little importance to my wicked prank, that on leaving the church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the next morning after reaching the third station. The servant, who was then with me, died during the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever discovering the woman upon whom I’played such a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged.”

“My God, my God!” cried Marya Gavrilovna, seizing him by the hand: “then it was you! And you do not recognize me?”

Burmin blenched — and threw himself at her feet.

THE UNDERTAKER