*4 See the glossary of Caucasian terms on this page.
*5 So Persian caps are called. Author.
*6 for the great liberty
*7 it is always good (Italian)
*8 “You don’t know those people; you’ll see it will come to playing with knives.”
*9 Alas, Postumus, Postumus, the fleeting / years slip by…(Horace, Odes, II, 14).
*10 …nor in Armenia, / friend Valgius, does the ice stay inert / for months on end…(Horace, Odes, II, 9).
*11 “Are you tired from yesterday?”—“Just a little, monsieur le Comte.”—“That upsets me, because we’re going to make another march to catch up with the pasha, and then we’ll have to pursue the enemy another thirty versts [twenty miles].”
*12 He was a man with a woman’s breasts, had undeveloped t[esticles], a puny and boyish p[enis]. We inquired, had he been emasculated?—God, he replied, castrated me.
*13 “Just look at the Turks…you can never trust them.” (French)
Glossary of Caucasian Terms
abaz: a silver coin minted by the Russians for use in Georgia
amanat: hostage or hostages, used in the Caucasus for diplomatic purposes
arba: a two- or four-wheeled horse-drawn cart
auclass="underline" village
bashlik: a pointed hood with long flaps for tying around the neck
bek: alternate spelling of bey, “chieftain”
burdyuk: a Caucasian wineskin
chadra: a long garment with a headcover or veil
chikhir: young wine
delibash: Turkish cavalrymen
dolman: a long, loose Turkish robe, open in front
pashalik: the territory governed by a Turkish pasha, a high military/political officer
saklia: a flat-roofed Caucasian mountain dwelling, most often of one room
seraskir: a Turkish army commander
FRAGMENTS AND SKETCHES
The Guests Were Arriving at the Dacha
I
The guests were arriving at * * *’s dacha. The reception room was filling with ladies and gentlemen, all coming at the same time from the theater, where a new Italian opera had been performed. Order was gradually established. The ladies seated themselves on the sofas. Around them formed a circle of men. Games of whist were set up. Several young men remained standing; and an inspection of Parisian lithographs took the place of general conversation.
Two men sat on the balcony. One of them, a traveling Spaniard, seemed to take a keen delight in the loveliness of the northern night. He gazed admiringly at the clear, pale sky, the majestic Neva illumined by an ineffable light, and the neighboring dachas silhouetted in the transparent twilight.
“How beautiful your northern night is,” he said finally, “and how shall I help missing its loveliness even under the sky of my own fatherland?”
“One of our poets,” the other answered him, “compared it to a flaxen-haired Russian beauty.1 I must admit that a swarthy, dark-eyed Italian or Spanish woman, full of vivacity and southern voluptuousness, captivates my imagination more. However, the ancient argument between la brune et la blonde has yet to be resolved. By the way, do you know how a certain foreign lady explained to me the strictness and purity of Petersburg morals? She claimed that for amorous adventures our winter nights are too cold and our summer nights too bright.”
The Spaniard smiled.
“So it’s all thanks to the influence of the climate,” he said. “Petersburg is the promised land of beauty, amiability, and irreproachability.”
“Beauty is a matter of taste,” the Russian answered, “but there’s no point in talking about our amiability. It’s not fashionable; no one even thinks of it. The women are afraid of being taken for coquettes, the men of losing their dignity. They all strive to be nonentities with taste and decorum. As for purity of morals, so as not to take advantage of a foreigner’s trustfulness, I shall tell you…”
And the conversation took a most satirical turn.
Just then the door to the reception room opened, and Volskaya came in. She was in the first bloom of youth. Her regular features, her big dark eyes, the vivacity of her movements, the very strangeness of her dress—all could not help but attract attention. The men greeted her with a sort of jocular affability, the ladies with noticeable ill will; but Volskaya noticed nothing; responding obliquely to commonplace questions, she glanced around distractedly; her face, changeable as a cloud, showed vexation; she sat down beside the imposing Princess G. and se mit à bouder,*1 as they say.
Suddenly she gave a start and turned to the balcony. Restlessness came over her. She rose, walked past the chairs and tables, stopped for a moment behind the chair of old General R., made no reply to his subtle compliment, and suddenly slipped out to the balcony.
The Spaniard and the Russian rose. She went up to them and with embarrassment said a few words in Russian. The Spaniard, supposing himself superfluous, left her and went back inside.
The imposing Princess G. followed Volskaya with her eyes and said in a low voice to her neighbor:
“I have never seen the like.”
“She’s terribly flighty,” he replied.
“Flighty? And then some. Her behavior is unforgivable. She can disrespect herself as much as she likes, but society does not deserve such scorn from her. Minsky might let her know that.”
“Il n’en fera rien, trop heureux de pouvoir la compromettre.*2 Meanwhile, I’ll wager their conversation is quite innocent.”
“I’m sure of it…Since when are you so benevolent?”
“I confess, I’ve taken an interest in that young woman’s fate. There’s a lot of good in her, and much less bad than people think. But passions will be the ruin of her.”
“Passions! That’s a big word! What are these passions? Are you imagining that she has an ardent heart, a romantic head? She’s simply ill-bred…What is this lithograph? A portrait of Hussein Pasha?2 Show it to me.”
The guests were leaving; not one lady was left in the reception room. Only the hostess stood with obvious displeasure by the table at which two diplomats were finishing a last game of écarté.3 Volskaya suddenly noticed the dawn and hastily left the balcony, where she had spent nearly a whole three hours alone with Minsky. The hostess said good-bye to her coldly, and deliberately did not bestow even a glance on Minsky. At the entrance several guests were waiting for their carriages. Minsky helped Volskaya into hers.
“Seems it’s your turn,” a young officer said to him.
“Not at all,” he replied. “She’s taken. I’m simply her confidant, or whatever. But I love her with all my heart—she’s killingly funny.”
—
Zinaida Volskaya lost her mother when she was five years old. Her father, a busy and distracted man, handed her over to a French governess, hired all sorts of teachers, and after that no longer bothered with her. At fourteen she was beautiful and wrote love letters to her dancing master. The father learned of it, fired the dancing master, and brought her out in society, considering her education finished. Zinaida’s coming out caused a great stir. Volsky, a rich young man accustomed to subjecting his feelings to the opinions of others, fell madly in love with her, because the emperor, having met her on the English Embankment,4 spent a whole hour talking with her. He proposed. Her father was glad of the chance to get the fashionable bride off his hands. Zinaida was burning with impatience to marry, so as to see the whole town in her house. Besides which Volsky was not repugnant to her, and so her fate was decided.