You look lovely, Dushenka, in any garments.
BOGDANOVICH1
In one of our remote provinces lay the estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. He served with the guards in his youth, retired at the beginning of 1797, went to his village, and after that never left it. He married a poor noblewoman, who died in childbirth while he was out hunting. The exercise of estate management soon consoled him. He built a house to his own plan, started a fulling mill, tripled his income, and began to consider himself the most intelligent man in the whole neighborhood, in which he was not contradicted by his neighbors, who came to visit him with their families and dogs. On weekdays he went around in a velveteen jacket, for Sundays he put on a frock coat of homespun broadcloth; he kept the accounts himself and read nothing except the Senate Gazette. He was generally liked, though he was considered proud. The only one who did not get along with him was Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his nearest neighbor. This was a real Russian squire. Having squandered the greater part of his fortune in Moscow and become a widower at the same time, he left for the last of his holdings, where he went on playing pranks, but now of a different sort. He planted an English garden, into which he poured almost all his remaining income. His stable-boys were dressed like English jockeys. His daughter had an English governess. He cultivated his fields following the English method,
But Russian grain won’t grow in foreign fashion,2
and, despite a significant reduction of expenses, Grigory Ivanovich’s income did not increase; he found ways to make new debts in the country as well; yet for all that he was considered none too stupid, because among the landowners of his province he was the first to mortgage his estate to the Government Trust: a transaction which at that time seemed extremely complicated and courageous.3 Of people who disapproved of him, the most severe was Berestov. Hatred of innovation was the distinguishing mark of his character. He could not speak indifferently about his neighbor’s anglomania, and constantly found occasions to criticize him. He would show a guest over his domain, and in reply to praise of his management, would say with a sly smile:
“Yes, sir, with me it’s not like with my neighbor Grigory Ivanovich! We won’t go ruining ourselves English-style! It’s enough if we get our fill Russian-style.”
These and similar jests, through the diligence of obliging neighbors, were made known to Grigory Ivanovich with additions and explanations. The anglomaniac bore criticism no more patiently than do our journalists. He raged and dubbed his detractor a bear and a provincial.
Such were the relations between these two proprietors when Berestov’s son came to his village. He had been educated at * * * University and had intended to enter military service, but his father would not consent to it. The young man felt himself totally unsuited to civil service. Neither would yield to the other, and the young man began meanwhile to live as a squire, letting his moustache grow just in case.
Alexei was indeed a fine fellow. It really would have been a pity if a military uniform were never to hug his slender waist, and if, instead of showing himself off on horseback, he were to spend his youth hunched over office papers. Seeing how he always galloped at the head of the hunt, heedless of the road, the neighbors all agreed that he would never make a worthwhile department chief. The young ladies cast an eye on him, some even fixed an eye on him; but Alexei paid little attention to them, and they supposed that the cause of his insensibility was a love intrigue. Indeed, a copy of the address from one of his letters was passed around: To Akulina Petrovna Kurochkina, in Moscow, opposite the St. Alexei Monastery, in the house of the coppersmith Savelyev, humbly requesting that you deliver this letter to A. N. R.
Those of my readers who have never lived in the country cannot imagine how charming these provincial young ladies are! Brought up on fresh air, in the shade of their apple orchards, they draw their knowledge of the world and of life from books. Solitude, freedom, and reading develop early in them feelings and passions unknown to our distracted beauties. For such a young lady the jingle of bells is already an adventure, a trip to the nearest town is considered epoch-making, and the visit of a guest leaves a lasting, sometimes even eternal, memory. Of course, anyone is free to laugh at some of their oddities, but the jests of the superficial observer cannot do away with their essential merits, the main one being “a particularity of character, a uniqueness (individualité),” without which, in the opinion of Jean-Paul, there can be no human greatness.4 In the capitals women may receive a better education; but social habits soon smooth their character away and make their souls as alike as their hats. This is said neither in judgment nor in condemnation,5 but still nota nostra manet,*1 as an ancient commentator writes.
It is easy to imagine what impression Alexei would make in the circle of our young ladies. He was the first to appear before them looking gloomy and disillusioned, the first to speak to them of lost joys and his faded youth; on top of that, he wore a black ring with the image of a death’s head. All this was extremely new in that province. The young ladies lost their minds over him.
But most interested of all in him was the daughter of my anglomaniac, Liza (or Betsy, as Grigory Ivanovich usually called her). The fathers did not call on each other, and she had not yet seen Alexei, while all her young neighbors talked only of him. She was seventeen years old. Dark eyes enlivened her swarthy and very pleasant face. She was an only child and consequently spoiled. Her playfulness and perpetual pranks delighted her father and drove to despair her governess, Miss Jackson, a prim old maid of forty, who whitened her face, blackened her eyebrows, reread Pamela6 twice a year, was paid two thousand roubles for it, and was dying of boredom “in this barbaric Russia.”
Liza was looked after by Nastya; she was a bit older, but as flighty as her young mistress. Liza loved her very much, revealed all her secrets to her, thought over all her fancies with her; in short, Nastya was a much more important person in the village of Priluchino than any confidante in a French tragedy.
“Allow me to go visiting today,” Nastya said one day as she was dressing the young lady.
“Of course; but where?”
“To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs’. Today is the cook’s wife’s name day. She came yesterday to invite us to dinner.”
“So,” said Liza, “the masters quarrel, and the servants entertain each other!”
“What do we care about the masters!” Nastya retorted. “Besides, I’m yours, not your father’s. You haven’t quarreled with young Berestov yet. Let the old folk fight, if it makes them happy.”
“Try to catch a glimpse of Alexei Berestov, Nastya, and tell me just exactly how he looks and what sort of man he is.”
Nastya promised, and Liza waited impatiently all day for her return. Nastya appeared in the evening.
“Well, Lizaveta Grigoryevna,” she said, coming into the room, “I saw young Berestov: had a good enough look at him; we spent the whole day together.”
“How’s that? Tell me, tell me everything in order.”
“As you please, miss. We went, me, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka…”
“All right, I know. So then?”
“Please, miss, I’ll tell it all in order. So we came just in time for dinner. The room was full of people. There were some from Kolbino, Zakharyevo, the clerk’s wife from Khlupino and her daughters…”
“Well, what about Berestov?”
“Wait, miss. So we sat down at the table, the clerk’s wife at the head, me next to her…The daughters pouted, but who cares about them…”
“Ah, Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details!”
“And how impatient you are! Well, so we got up from the table…and we’d been sitting there for about three hours, and it was a nice dinner; blancmange for dessert, blue, red, and stripy…So we got up from the table and went to the garden to play tag, and it was then that the young master appeared.”
“Well, so? Is it true he’s so good-looking?”
“Astonishingly good-looking, a handsome man, you might say. Tall, slender, all ruddy-cheeked…”
“Really? And I thought he had a pale face. So? How did he seem to you? Sad? Pensive?”
“What? Never in my life have I seen such a wild one. He took a notion to play tag with us.”
“To play tag with you! Impossible!”
“Very possible! And he had other notions, too! He’d catch a girl and start kissing her!”
“Say what you like, Nastya, you’re lying.”
“Say what you like, I’m not lying. I could barely fight him off. He spent the whole day playing with us.”
“How is it they say he’s in love and doesn’t look at anybody.”
“I don’t know, miss, but he looked at me quite a lot, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; and at Pasha from Kolbino, and, it’s sinful to say it, but there’s nobody he left out—such a naughty boy.”
“That’s amazing! And what do the servants say about him?”
“An excellent master, they say: so kind, so cheerful. The only bad thing is that he’s too fond of chasing after the girls. But for me there’s no harm in that: he’ll settle down in time.”
“How I’d love to see him!” Liza said with a sigh.
“What’s so tricky about that? Tugilovo isn’t far from us, only two miles: take a stroll in that direction, or go on horseback; you’re sure to meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he takes his gun and goes hunting.”
“No, no good. He might think I was chasing after him. Besides, our fathers have quarreled, so it will be impossible for me to get acquainted with him…Ah, Nastya! You know what? I’ll dress up like a peasant girl!”
“That’s it! Put on a coarse shirt, a sarafan, and set out boldly for Tugilovo. I guarantee you Berestov won’t pass you by.”
“And I can talk perfectly the local way. Ah, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a fine idea!” And Liza lay down to sleep with the firm intention of carrying out her amusing proposal.
The next day she proceeded to carry out her plan. She sent to the market for coarse linen, simple blue cotton, and copper buttons; cut out a shirt and a sarafan with Nastya’s help, had all the maidservants sit down to sew, and by evening everything was ready. Liza tried on the new outfit and confessed before the mirror that she had never yet found herself so pretty. She practiced her role, making low bows as she walked, then wagging her head several times like a china cat, talked in peasant parlance, covered her face with her sleeve when she laughed, and earned Nastya’s full approval. One difficulty remained: she tried walking barefoot in the yard, but the grass pricked her tender feet, and she found sand and gravel unbearable. Nastya was of help here, too: she measured Liza’s foot, ran out to the fields to the shepherd Trofim, and ordered a pair of bast shoes to that measure. The next day Liza woke up bright and early. The whole house was still asleep. Nastya waited for the shepherd outside the gate. A horn sounded, and the village flock filed past the master’s yard. Trofim, walking by Nastya, gave her the motley little bast shoes and received a fifty-kopeck reward from her. Liza quietly dressed herself as a peasant, whispered her instructions to Nastya regarding Miss Jackson, left by the back porch, and ran through the kitchen garden to the fields.
Dawn shone in the east, and the golden ranks of clouds seemed to be awaiting the sun, the way courtiers await the sovereign; the clear sky, the morning freshness, the dew, the breeze, and the birds’ singing filled Liza’s heart with a childlike gaiety. Fearing to meet someone she knew, she seemed not to walk but to fly. Approaching the wood that stood at the boundary of her father’s property, Liza slowed her pace. Here she was to await Alexei. Her heart beat fast, not knowing why itself; but the fear that accompanies our youthful pranks is their chief delight. Liza entered the twilight of the wood. Its muted, rolling murmur greeted the girl. Her gaiety died down. She gradually abandoned herself to a sweet reverie. She was thinking…but is it possible to define precisely what a seventeen-year-old girl is thinking, alone, in a wood, at five o’clock on a spring morning? And so, she walked deep in thought down the road, shaded on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a handsome pointer barked at her. Liza was frightened and cried out. Just then a voice said: “Tout beau, Sbogar, ici…”*2—and a young hunter appeared from behind the bushes.
“Don’t be afraid, dear,” he said to Liza, “my dog doesn’t bite.”
Liza had already recovered from her fright and managed to take advantage of the circumstances.
“No, master,” she said, pretending to be half frightened, half shy, “I am afraid. See how vicious he is; he may go for me again.”
Alexei (the reader has already recognized him) meanwhile gazed intently at the young peasant girl.
“I’ll accompany you, if you’re afraid,” he said to her. “Will you allow me to walk beside you?”
“Who’s to stop you?” Liza replied. “Freedom is as freedom does, and the road’s for everybody.”
“Where are you from?”
“From Priluchino. I’m the blacksmith Vassily’s daughter; I’m gathering mushrooms.” (Liza was carrying a basket on a string.) “And you, master? From Tugilovo, is it?”
“That’s right,” Alexei replied, “I’m the young master’s valet.” Alexei wanted to smooth over their difference. But Liza looked at him and laughed.
“That’s a lie,” she said. “Don’t take me for a fool. I can see you’re the master himself.”
“Why do you think so?”
“From everything.”
“What, though?”
“Can’t I tell a master from a servant? You dress different, talk different, and you don’t call your dog the way we do.”
Alexei liked Liza more and more every moment. Unaccustomed to any formalities in dealing with pretty village girls, he was about to embrace her, but Liza jumped away from him and adopted such a stern and cold look that, while Alexei nearly laughed, he refrained from further attempts.
“If you want us to be friends in the future,” she said with dignity, “kindly do not forget yourself.”
“Who taught you such great wisdom?” Alexei asked, bursting into laughter. “Was it my acquaintance, Nastenka, your mistress’s maid? See by what paths enlightenment spreads!”
Liza felt she had stepped out of her role, and put things right at once.
“And what are you thinking?” she said. “As if I’ve never set foot in the master’s yard? Don’t worry, I’ve heard and seen all kinds of things. Anyhow,” she went on, “if I chatter with you, I won’t gather any mushrooms. You go this way, master, and I’ll go that. Begging your pardon…”
Liza was about to leave, but Alexei caught her by the hand.
“What’s your name, dear heart?”
“Akulina,” Liza replied, trying to free her fingers from Alexei’s grip. “Do let me go, sir; it’s time I went home.”
“Well, Akulina, my friend, I’ll be sure to visit your father, the blacksmith Vassily.”
“Oh, no,” Liza objected quickly, “for Christ’s sake, don’t go there. If they find out at home that I was chatting with a squire alone in the wood, it’ll be bad for me: my father, the blacksmith Vassily, will beat me to death.”
“But I want to be sure I’ll see you again.”
“Well, I’ll come here again some time gathering mushrooms.”
“When?”
“Oh, tomorrow, say.”
“Dear Akulina, I’d kiss you, but I don’t dare. So, tomorrow, at the same time, is that right?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And you won’t deceive me?”
“No, I won’t.”
“Swear to God?”
“Well, so I swear to you by Saint Friday, I’ll come.”7
The young people parted. Liza emerged from the wood, crossed the fields, stole into the garden, and rushed headlong to the barn, where Nastya was waiting for her. There she changed, absentmindedly answering her impatient confidante’s questions, and presented herself in the drawing room. The table was laid, breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already whitened and laced in like a wineglass, was cutting thin slices of bread. Her father praised her for her early walk.
“There’s nothing healthier than getting up at dawn,” he said.
Here he cited several examples of human longevity, drawn from English magazines, noting that all people who lived to be over a hundred abstained from drink and arose at dawn both winter and summer. Liza did not listen to him. In her thoughts she went over all the circumstances of the morning’s meeting, the whole conversation of Akulina and the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain did she object to herself that their talk had not gone beyond the limits of propriety, that this prank could not have any consequences—her conscience murmured louder than her reason. The promise she had given for the next day troubled her most of all: she very nearly decided not to keep her solemn oath. But Alexei, having waited for her in vain, might go looking in the village for the daughter of the blacksmith Vassily, the real Akulina, a fat, pockmarked wench, and thus figure out her light-minded prank. This thought frightened Liza, and she decided to go to the wood again the next morning as Akulina.
For his part, Alexei was delighted; all day he thought about his new acquaintance; during the night the image of the swarthy beauty haunted his imagination even in sleep. Dawn had barely broken when he was already dressed. Giving himself no time to load his gun, he went out to the fields with his faithful Sbogar and ran to the place of the promised meeting. Around half an hour passed in unbearable expectation; at last he glimpsed the blue sarafan flashing amidst the bushes, and he rushed to meet dear Akulina. She smiled at his rapturous gratitude; but Alexei at once noticed traces of dismay and uneasiness on her face. He wanted to know the reason for it. Liza confessed that her conduct seemed light-minded to her, that she regretted it, that she had not wanted to break the word she had given this once, but that this meeting would be the last, and she asked him to end their acquaintance, which could not lead them to any good. This was all said, of course, in peasant parlance; but the thoughts and feelings, unusual in a simple girl, struck Alexei. He used all his eloquence to talk Akulina out of her intention; assured her of the innocence of his desires, promised never to give her any cause for regret, to obey her in all things, implored her not to deprive him of one delight: of seeing her alone, if only every other day, or at least twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion and in that moment was indeed in love. Liza listened to him silently.
“Give me your word,” she said finally, “that you will never look for me in the village or make inquiries about me. Give me your word that you will not seek any other meetings with me than those I set up myself.”
Alexei was about to swear by Saint Friday, but Liza stopped him with a smile.
“I have no need of an oath,” she said. “Your promise is enough.”
After that they talked amiably, strolling together through the wood, until Liza said to him: “It’s time.” They parted, and Alexei, left alone, could not understand how it was that in two meetings a simple village girl had managed to gain real power over him. His relations with Akulina had the charm of novelty for him, and though the strange peasant girl’s prescriptions seemed burdensome to him, the thought of not keeping his word never even entered his head. The thing was that Alexei, despite the fatal ring, the mysterious correspondence, and the gloomy disillusionment, was a good and ardent lad and had a pure heart, capable of feeling the joys of innocence.
If I were to heed only my own wishes, I would certainly describe in full detail the young people’s meetings, their growing inclination for and trust in each other, their occupations, their conversations; but I know that the majority of my readers would not share my pleasure. Such details, generally, are bound to seem cloying, and so I will skip them, saying briefly that, before two months were out, my Alexei loved her to distraction, and Liza, though quieter, was no more indifferent than he was. They were both happy with the present and gave little thought to the future.
The thought of indissoluble bonds flashed through their minds quite often, but they never spoke of it to each other. The reason was clear: Alexei, attached as he was to his dear Akulina, always remembered the distance that existed between him and the poor peasant girl; while Liza knew what hatred existed between their fathers, and dared not hope for a mutual reconciliation. Besides that, her vanity was secretly piqued by the vague, romantic hope of finally seeing the Tugilovo landowner at the feet of the Priluchino blacksmith’s daughter. Suddenly a major event nearly altered their mutual relations.
One clear, cold morning (of the sort our Russian autumn is so rich in), Ivan Petrovich Berestov went out for a ride on horseback, taking along, just in case, three brace of borzois, a groom, and several serf boys with clappers. At the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the fine weather, ordered his bobtailed filly saddled and went trotting around his anglicized domain. Approaching the wood, he saw his neighbor, proudly sitting on his horse, in a Caucasian jacket lined with fox fur, waiting for a hare that the boys were trying to drive out of the bushes by shouting and clapping. If Grigory Ivanovich could have foreseen this encounter, he would certainly have turned aside; but he rode into Berestov quite unexpectedly and suddenly found himself within a pistol shot of him. There was nothing to be done. Muromsky, being an educated European, rode up to his adversary and greeted him politely. Berestov responded with all the diligence of a chained bear bowing to the “ladies and gentlemen” at his leader’s command. Just then a hare shot out of the wood and ran across the field. Berestov and his groom shouted at the top of their lungs, loosed the dogs, and galloped after them at top speed. Muromsky’s horse, who had never been at a hunt, took fright and bolted. Muromsky, who proclaimed himself an excellent horseman, gave her free rein and was inwardly pleased at the chance to rid himself of his obnoxious interlocutor. But the horse, coming to a gully she had not noticed before, suddenly swerved aside, and Muromsky was unseated. Falling rather heavily onto the frozen ground, he lay there cursing his bobtailed filly, who, as if coming to her senses, stopped at once, as soon as she felt herself riderless. Ivan Petrovich galloped over to him and asked if he was hurt. Meanwhile the groom brought the guilty horse, leading her by the bridle. He helped Muromsky to climb into the saddle, and Berestov invited him to his house. Muromsky could not refuse, for he felt himself obliged, and thus Berestov returned home in glory, having hunted down a hare and leading his adversary, wounded and almost a prisoner of war.
Over lunch the neighbors fell to talking quite amicably. Muromsky asked Berestov to lend him a droshky, for he confessed that on account of the pain he was in no condition to make it home on horseback. Berestov saw him off to the porch, and Muromsky left, but not before obtaining his word of honor that he would come the very next day (and with Alexei Ivanovich) for a friendly dinner in Priluchino. Thus an ancient and deeply rooted enmity seemed about to end owing to the shying of a bobtailed filly.
Liza ran out to meet Grigory Ivanovich.
“What does this mean, papa?” she said in surprise. “Why are you limping? Where’s your horse? Whose droshky is this?”
“You’ll never guess, my dear,”*3 Grigory Ivanovich replied, and he told her everything that had happened. Liza could not believe her ears. Giving her no time to recover, Grigory Ivanovich announced that the two Berestovs would dine with them the next day.
“What are you saying!” she cried, turning pale. “The Berestovs, father and son! Dining with us tomorrow! No, papa, say what you like, I won’t show myself for anything.”
“What, have you lost your mind?” her father retorted. “Since when have you become so bashful, or are you nursing a hereditary hatred for them, like a romantic heroine? Enough, don’t play the fool…”
“No, papa, not for anything in the world, not for the finest treasure will I appear before the Berestovs.”
Grigory Ivanovich shrugged and did not argue any more with her, for he knew that he would get nowhere by contradicting her, and he went to rest from his noteworthy ride.
Lizaveta Grigoryevna went off to her room and sent for Nastya. The two spent a long time discussing the next day’s visit. What would Alexei think if he recognized the well-bred young lady as his Akulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct and principles, of her sagacity? On the other hand, Liza wanted very much to see what impression such an unexpected encounter would make on him…Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind. She immediately told it to Nastya; they were both pleased with such a godsend and decided to carry it out without fail.
The next day over breakfast Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter whether she still intended to hide from the Berestovs.
“Papa,” Liza replied, “I’ll receive them if you like, only on one condition: however I appear before them, whatever I do, you’re not to scold me or show any sign of surprise or displeasure.”
“Again some sort of pranks!” Grigory Ivanovich said, laughing. “Very well, very well, I agree; do whatever you like, my dark-eyed little mischief.” With those words he kissed her on the forehead, and Liza ran off to get ready.
At exactly two o’clock a homemade carriage harnessed to six horses drove into the yard and rolled around the densely green circle of the lawn. Old Berestov went up the steps supported by two of Muromsky’s liveried lackeys. Behind him came his son, who arrived on horseback, and together they went into the dining room, where the table was already laid. Muromsky could not have received his neighbors more affably, proposed to show them the garden and the menagerie before dinner, and led them down the path, carefully swept and sprinkled with sand. Old Berestov inwardly begrudged the labor and time wasted on such useless whims, but kept silent out of politeness. His son shared neither the economical landowner’s displeasure, nor the vain anglomaniac’s raptures; he impatiently awaited the appearance of the host’s daughter, of whom he had heard so much, and though his heart, as we know, was already taken, a young beauty always had a right to his imagination.
Returning to the drawing room, the three sat down: the old men recalled former times and stories from their service, while Alexei reflected on the role he would play in the presence of Liza. He decided that in any case cold distraction would be the most suitable of all and prepared himself accordingly. The door opened, he turned his head with such indifference, with such proud nonchalance, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette was bound to shudder. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, old Miss Jackson came in, whitened, tight-laced, with downcast eyes and a little curtsy, and Alexei’s splendid military maneuver went for naught. Before he had time to regroup his forces, the door opened again, and this time Liza came in. They all rose. The father was just beginning to introduce the guests, but suddenly stopped and quickly bit his lip…Liza, his swarthy Liza, was whitened to the ears, her brows blackened even more than Miss Jackson’s; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, were fluffed up like a Louis XIV wig; sleeves à l’imbécile8 stuck out like Madame de Pompadour’s farthingale; her waist was laced up like the letter X, and all her mother’s diamonds that had not yet been pawned shone on her fingers, neck, and ears. Alexei could not have recognized his Akulina in this ridiculous and glittering young miss. His father went to kiss her hand, and he vexedly followed him; when he touched her white fingers, it seemed to him that they were trembling. At the same time he noticed a little foot, deliberately exposed and shod with all possible coquetry. That reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her attire. As for the white and black greasepaint, it must be confessed that in the simplicity of his heart he did not notice them at first glance, nor did he suspect them later on. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show any surprise; but his daughter’s mischief seemed so amusing to him that he could barely control himself. The prim Englishwoman was in no mood for laughter. She guessed that the black and white greasepaint had been purloined from her chest of drawers, and a crimson flush of vexation showed through the artificial whiteness of her face. She cast fiery glances at the young prankster, who, putting off all explanations for another time, pretended not to notice them.
They sat down at the table. Alexei went on playing the role of the distracted and pensive one. Liza minced, spoke in singsong through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept peering at her, not understanding what she was up to, but finding it all quite amusing. The Englishwoman was furious and said nothing. Only Ivan Petrovich felt at home: he ate for two, drank his fill, laughed at his own jokes, and talked and guffawed more and more amiably every moment.
They finally got up from the table; the guests left, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free rein to his laughter and his questions.
“What gave you a mind to fool them?” he asked Liza. “And do you know something? White greasepaint really becomes you; I won’t enter into the mysteries of feminine toilette, but in your place I’d use white greasepaint; not too much, of course, just a little.”
Liza was delighted with the success of her hoax. She embraced her father, promised to think over his advice, and ran to propitiate the annoyed Miss Jackson, who could hardly be persuaded to open her door and listen to her excuses. Liza had been ashamed to show such a swarthy face to strangers; she had not dared to ask…she was sure that good, kind Miss Jackson would forgive her…and so on and so forth. Miss Jackson, now persuaded that Liza had not thought to make fun of her, calmed down, kissed Liza, and in token of their reconciliation gave her a little jar of white English greasepaint, which Liza accepted with expressions of sincere gratitude.
The reader can guess that the next morning Liza was not slow to make her appearance in the grove of their meetings.
“Did you go to our masters’ yesterday, sir?” she asked Alexei at once. “How did you find the young lady?”
Alexei replied that he had not noticed her.
“A pity,” Liza retorted.
“Why is that?” asked Alexei.
“Because I wanted to ask you whether it’s true what they say…”
“What do they say?”
“Whether it’s true, as they say, that I supposedly resemble the young lady?”
“What nonsense! Next to you, she’s a real fright.”
“Ah, sir, it’s sinful for you to say so; our young lady’s so white, so elegant! As if I could compare with her!”
Alexei swore to her that she was better than all possible white-skinned young ladies and, to reassure her completely, began to portray her mistress in such funny strokes that Liza laughed heartily.
“Still and all,” she said with a sigh, “though my young lady may be ridiculous, I’m just an illiterate fool next to her.”
“Eh,” said Alexei, “there’s nothing to grieve over! If you like, I’ll teach you to read and write at once.”
“Really,” said Liza, “why not give it a try?”
“Very well, my dear, we’ll begin right now.”
They sat down. Alexei took a pencil and a notebook from his pocket, and Akulina learned the alphabet with surprising ease. Alexei could not marvel enough at her quick-wittedness. The next morning she also wanted to try writing; at first the pencil would not obey her, but after a few minutes she began to trace letters quite decently.
“What a wonder!” said Alexei. “Our studies go more quickly than by the Lancaster system.”9
Indeed, at the third lesson Akulina could already read “Natalya, the Boyar’s Daughter”10 syllable by syllable, interrupting her reading with remarks which truly amazed Alexei, and she covered a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms chosen from the same tale.
A week went by and they began to exchange letters. The post office was set up in a hole in an old oak tree. Nastya secretly performed the duties of postman. There Alexei brought letters written in a round hand, and there, on plain blue paper, he found the scribbles of his beloved. Akulina was evidently growing accustomed to a better turn of style, and her mind was noticeably developing and forming.
Meanwhile the recent acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky strengthened more and more and soon turned into friendship, owing to this particular circumstance: the thought often occurred to Muromsky that, at Ivan Petrovich’s death, all his property would pass into Alexei Ivanovich’s hands; that Alexei Ivanovich would thus become one of the richest landowners in the province; and that there was no reason why he should not marry Liza. Old Berestov, for his part, though he acknowledged a certain extravagance (or English folly, as he put it) in his neighbor, still did not deny that he had many excellent qualities—for instance, a rare resourcefulness: Grigory Ivanovich was closely related to Count Pronsky, a distinguished and powerful man; the count could be very useful to Alexei, and Muromsky (so thought Ivan Petrovich) would probably be glad of the chance to give his daughter away in a profitable manner. The old men thought so much about all this, each to himself, that they finally talked it over together, embraced, promised to work things out properly, and set about it, each for his own part. Muromsky was faced with a difficulty: persuading his Betsy to get more closely acquainted with Alexei, whom she had not seen since that memorable dinner. It seemed they had not liked each other very much; at least Alexei never came back to Priluchino, and Liza went to her room each time Ivan Petrovich honored them with a visit.
“But,” thought Grigory Ivanovich, “if Alexei came here every day, Betsy would be bound to fall in love with him. That’s in the nature of things. Time puts everything right.”
Ivan Petrovich was less worried about the success of his intentions. That same evening he summoned his son to his study, lit his pipe, and, after a brief silence, said:
“Why is it, Alyosha, that you haven’t mentioned military service for so long now? Or perhaps the hussar uniform no longer tempts you!…”
“No, papa,” Alexei replied respectfully. “I see it is not your wish that I join the hussars; it is my duty to obey you.”
“Very well,” replied Ivan Petrovich, “I see you are an obedient son. That is a comfort to me. Nor do I want to force you; I will not compel you to enter…government service…at once; but meanwhile I intend to get you married.”
“To whom, papa?” asked the amazed Alexei.
“To Lizaveta Grigoryevna Muromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovich. “Quite the bride, isn’t she?”
“I’m not thinking of marrying yet, papa.”
“You’re not thinking, so I’ve thought for you and thought well.”
“Say what you like, Liza Muromsky doesn’t please me at all.”
“She’ll please you later. Habit and love go hand in glove.”
“I don’t feel capable of making her happy.”
“Her happiness is not your worry. What? So this is how you respect the parental will? Very well!”
“As you please, I don’t want to marry and I won’t marry.”
“You’ll marry, or I’ll curse you, and—as God is holy!—I’ll sell the estate and squander the money, and you won’t get half a kopeck! I’ll give you three days to reflect, and meanwhile don’t you dare show your face to me.”
Alexei knew that once his father got something into his head, in Taras Skotinin’s words, even a nail couldn’t drive it out;11 but Alexei took after his papa, and it was just as hard to out-argue him. He went to his room and began to reflect on the limits of parental power, on Lizaveta Grigoryevna, on his father’s solemn promise to make a beggar of him, and finally on Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic notion of marrying a peasant girl and living by his own labors came to his head, and the more he thought about this decisive step, the more reasonable he found it. For some time their meetings in the grove had broken off on account of rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the clearest handwriting and the most frantic style, announced to her the ruin that threatened them, and at the same time offered her his hand. He at once took the letter to the post office, the hole in the tree, and lay down to sleep quite pleased with himself.
The next day Alexei, firm in his intention, went to Muromsky early in the morning to have a frank talk with him. He hoped to arouse his magnanimity and win him over to his side.
“Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” he asked, stopping his horse before the porch of the Priluchino castle.
“No, he’s not,” answered the servant. “Grigory Ivanovich went out early this morning.”
“How annoying!” thought Alexei. “Then is Lizaveta Grigoryevna at home, at least?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexei jumped off his horse, handed the bridle to the lackey, and went in without being announced.
“All will be decided,” he thought, approaching the drawing room. “I’ll talk it over with the girl herself.”
He went in…and was dumbfounded! Liza…no, Akulina, dear, swarthy Akulina, not in a sarafan, but in a white morning dress, was sitting by the window and reading his letter. She was so taken up with it that she did not hear him come in. Alexei could not hold back an exclamation of joy. Liza gave a start, raised her head, cried out, and was about to run away. He rushed to hold her back.
“Akulina, Akulina!…”
Liza tried to free herself…
“Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur; mais êtes-vous fou?”*4 she kept saying, turning away.
“Akulina! My dear friend, Akulina!” he kept saying, kissing her hands. Miss Jackson, a witness to this scene, did not know what to think. Just then the door opened and Grigory Ivanovich came in.
“Aha!” said Muromsky. “It seems the matter’s already quite settled between you…”
My readers will spare me the unnecessary duty of describing the denouement.
End of The Tales of I. P. Belkin