“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
*1 Our observation stands. Translator.
*2 “Stay, Sbogar, here…” Translator.
*3 In English in the original. Translator.
*4 “Leave me alone, sir; are you mad?” Translator.
The History of the Village of Goryukhino
If God sends me readers, they might be curious to know how it was that I decided to write The History of the Village of Goryukhino. For that I must go into a few preliminary details.
I was born of honorable and noble parents in the village of Goryukhino on April 1st in the year 1801, and received my primary education from our sexton. To this estimable man I owe the love of reading and of literary occupations in general that subsequently developed in me. My progress was slow but certain, for at the age of ten I already knew almost all that has remained till now in my memory, which was weak by nature and which, on account of my equally weak health, I was not allowed to burden unnecessarily.
The title of man of letters always seemed most enviable to me. My parents, estimable people, but simple and educated in an old-fashioned way, never read anything, and there were no books in the whole house except for the ABC they bought for me, some almanacs, and the New Grammar.1 Reading the Grammar was long the favorite of my exercises. I knew it by heart, and, despite that, I found new, unnoticed beauties in it every day. After General Plemyannikov, under whom my father had once served as adjutant, Kurganov seemed to me the greatest of men. I asked everyone about him, but, unfortunately, no one could satisfy my curiosity, no one had known him personally, and to all my questions they answered only that Kurganov wrote the New Grammar, which I already knew very well. The darkness of the unknown surrounded him like some ancient demigod; sometimes I even doubted the truth of his existence. His name seemed invented and the talk about him an empty myth waiting to be investigated by a new Niebuhr.2 However, he still haunted my imagination, I tried to attach some likeness to this mysterious person, and finally decided that he must resemble the zemstvo assessor Koryuchkin,3 a little old man with a red nose and flashing eyes.
In the year 1812 I was taken to Moscow and placed in Karl Ivanovich Meyer’s boarding school, where I spent no more than three months, for we were disbanded before the enemy entered, and I returned to the country.4 Once the twelve nations were driven out, they wanted to take me to Moscow again, to see if Karl Ivanovich had returned to his former hearth and home, or, in the contrary case, to place me in another school, but I persuaded my dear mother to keep me in the country, my health preventing me from getting up at seven, as is the custom in all boarding schools. Thus I reached the age of sixteen, remaining with my primary education and playing ball with my playmates, the only science of which I acquired sufficient knowledge during my stay in boarding school.
At that time I enlisted as a cadet in the * * * infantry regiment, in which I remained until this past year of 18––. My term in the regiment left me with few pleasant impressions apart from being promoted to officer and winning 245 roubles at a time when I had only one rouble and sixty kopecks left in my pocket. The death of my beloved parents forced me to resign my commission and return to my paternal seat.
This epoch of my life is so important for me that I intend to enlarge upon it, begging the kindly reader’s pardon beforehand if I am making ill use of his indulgent attention.
The day was autumnal and bleak. Having reached the station where I had to turn off to Goryukhino, I hired a private coach and drove down the country road. Though I am of mild temperament by nature, I was so gripped by impatience to see again the places where I had spent my best years that I kept urging my coachman on, now promising him a tip, now threatening him with a beating, and since it was more convenient for me to nudge him in the back than to take out and undo my purse, I confess I struck him two or three times, something that had never happened to me in all my life, for, though I don’t know why myself, the coachman’s estate has always been especially dear to me. The coachman urged his troika on, but it seemed to me that, as is usual with coachmen, while talking to the horses and waving his whip, he kept tightening the reins. At last I glimpsed the Goryukhino grove, and ten minutes later we drove into the courtyard. My heart was beating hard—I looked around me with indescribable emotion. I had not seen Goryukhino for eight years. The little birches that had been planted by the fence when I was there had grown and were now tall, branchy trees. The courtyard, in former times adorned by three regular flowerbeds with wide, sand-strewn paths between them, had been turned into an unmowed meadow on which a brown cow grazed. My britzka stopped at the front porch. My servant went to open the door, but it was boarded up, though the shutters were open and the house seemed inhabited. A woman came out of the servants’ cottage and asked whom I wanted. Learning that the master had arrived, she ran back to the cottage, and soon the domestics surrounded me. I was touched to the bottom of my heart, seeing familiar and unfamiliar faces, and I exchanged friendly kisses with them alclass="underline" the boys I had played with were grown men, and the girls who used to sit on the floor waiting for errands were married women. The men wept. To the women I said unceremoniously: “How you’ve aged!” And they replied with feeling: “And how plain you’ve grown, dear master!” They took me to the back porch, where I met my wet nurse, who embraced me with tears and sobs as a much-enduring Odysseus. They ran to heat up the bathhouse. The cook, who in his current inactivity had grown a beard, offered to prepare dinner for me, or supper—for it was already getting dark. The rooms in which the wet nurse and my late mother’s maids had been living were cleared for me at once, and I found myself in my humble ancestral abode and fell asleep in the same room I had been born in twenty-three years earlier.
I spent some three weeks in all sorts of business—dealing with assessors, marshals, and provincial officials of every description. At last I came into my inheritance and took possession of my ancestral seat: I calmed down, but soon the boredom of inactivity began to torment me. I was not yet acquainted with my good and estimable neighbor * * *. Running an estate was an occupation entirely foreign to me. The conversation of my wet nurse, whom I had promoted to housekeeper and steward, consisted of exactly fifteen family anecdotes, very interesting for me, but always recounted in the same way, so that she became for me another New Grammar, in which I knew every line on every page. The real, time-honored grammar I found in the pantry, amidst all sorts of junk, in lamentable condition. I brought it into the light and tried to read it, but Kurganov had lost his former charm for me; I read it through once more and never opened it again.