Russian Romance (Pushkin)/The Lady-Rustic
THE LADY-RUSTIC.
The possessions of Ivan Petróvitch Beréstoff lay in one of our remote provinces. He had served in the Guards in his youth, but had retired early in the year 1797, and settled on his property, which he never again quitted. He had married a lady of noble birth, but in indigent circumstances, who died in child-bed during his absence when on a visit to one of his distant estates. He soon found consolation in his house occupations. Having built a house according to a design of his own, and established a cloth manufactory, he put his money matters in order, and began to consider himself the cleverest man in the place,—an opinion which was never disputed by his neighbours, who used to visit him accompanied by their families and their dogs. He wore on week-days a plush jacket, and on holidays a surtout of home-spun; he kept his own accounts, and read nothing but The Senate News.
He was generally liked, though people thought him proud. It was only his nearest neighbour, Grigory Ivánovitch Múromsky, who could not get on with him. He was a thorough Russian country gentleman. Having squandered at Moscow the greatest part of his fortune, and having become a widower at about the same time, he retired to one of his remaining estates, where he continued his extravagances, though they now took a different course. He laid out an English garden, upon which he wasted almost all that remained of his income. His stable-boys were dressed as English jockeys. His daughter's governess was an Englishwoman. His agricultural labours were conducted on the English principle.
But "Russian bread is not begotten of foreign culture," and notwithstanding a considerable decrease in his expenditure, the income of Grigory Ivánovitch did not increase. He had found means to contract new debts, though he lived in the country. Nevertheless, nobody considered him a fool, for he was the first of the landowners in the province who thought of mortgaging his property at the Court of Trustees,—a transaction which at that period was considered very hazardous. Amongst those who censured him was Beréstoff, who expressed himself in the strongest terms. Hatred to innovations formed a prominent trait in his character. He could not speak with equanimity of his neighbour's Anglomania, and sought every opportunity to criticize him. If he chanced to show a guest over his premises, and if his household arrangements elicited approbation, he was sure to say, with a malicious smile: "Oh! yes; my place is not like my neighbour's, Grigory Ivánovitch's. How could we squander after the English fashion! We are thankful if we can manage to keep off hunger in the Russian way!" These and such like sarcasms came to Grigory Ivánovitch's knowledge, exaggerated and embellished according to the tale-bearer's zeal. The Anglomane stood criticism as badly as our own journalists do. He raged, and called his calumniator a bear and a provincialist.
This was the footing they were upon when Beréstoff's son arrived. He had been brought up at the University, and intended entering the army; but his father would not give his consent. For the Civil Service the young man had no taste. Neither would give in, and the young Aleksèy in the meanwhile led the life of a private gentleman, having, however, allowed his moustache[1] to grow, ready for any emergency.
Aleksèy was really a good fellow, and it would have been a pity indeed were his well-proportioned figure never to be seen in a uniform, and were he, instead of showing himself off on horseback, to spend his youth bending over office-papers. The neighbours who saw him lead on the hunting-field, reckless of the way he followed, all agreed in saying that he would never turn out a creditable head of a department. All the young ladies watched him, and sometimes would take a furtive look at him; but Aleksèy took little notice of them, and they attributed his indifference to some love affair. The copy of the address on one of his letters was actually being handed about amongst them: "To Akulina Pétrovna Kourótchkin, Moscow, opposite the Aleksèy Monastery, in the house of the coppersmith Savélieff, and you are humbly requested to forward this letter to A. N. R."
Such of my readers as may not have lived in the country, cannot imagine how captivating are these provincial young ladies. Brought up breathing the purest air under the shade of their orchard trees, they only draw their knowledge of life and of the world from books. Solitude, freedom, and their love of reading, develop in them early feelings and passions which are unknown to our worldly beauties. The very sound of a carriage-bell is an event to them; a sojourn in the neighbouring town is considered an epoch in their existence, and the visit of a guest leaves behind it long, and occasionally everlasting reminiscences. Everybody is, of course, at liberty to jeer at some of their peculiarities; but the ridicule of a superficial observer cannot do away with their existing good qualities, the chief of which is independence of character, without which, in Jean Paul's opinion, no human greatness exists. Women may possibly receive better education in the capitals, but intercourse with the world soon assimilates characters and renders their souls as uniform as their head-dresses. This is said neither in judgment nor in reproach; however, nota nostra manet, as has written an old commentator.
It is easy to imagine the impression produced by Aleksèy on our young ladies. It was he who first appeared before them gloomy and disenchanted; who first spoke to them of wasted joys, and of his withered youth; he also wore a mourning ring with a death's head. All this was something quite new in the province, and the girls were losing their senses.
But Lisa (or Betsy, as Grigory Ivánovitch generally called her), the daughter of my Anglomane, was more taken up with him than was anybody else. Their fathers did not visit, and she had not even seen Aleksèy when he had already become the subject of conversation of all her young neighbours. She was seventeen. Her black eyes lit up her dark and very agreeable face. She was an only, and consequently a spoilt, child. Her high spirits and her constant humour enraptured her father, and distracted her governess, Miss Jackson, a conceited spinster of forty, who painted her face and eyebrows, read "Pamela" twice a year, received the sum of two thousand roubles, and who felt bored to death in that barbarous Russia.
Lisa was waited upon by Nastia, who, though a little older, was quite as giddy as her mistress. Lisa was very fond of her, confiding to her all her secrets, and arranging with her all her little plans; in a word, Nastia was a much more important personage on the Anossoff estate than could be any one confidante in a French tragedy.
"May I go out to-day?" asked Nastia upon one occasion, whilst dressing her mistress.
"Certainly—where?"
"To Tugilevo, to the Beréstoffs. It is the Saint's-day of their cook's wife, and she came yesterday to invite us to dinner."
"Is that it?" said Lisa: "the masters are at enmity, and the servants entertain each other!"
"And what have the masters got to do with it?" replied Nastia; "besides, I belong to you, and not to your father, and you and young Beréstoff have not yet managed to fall out: let the old people fight it out if it pleases them."
"Do endeavour, Nastia, to see Aleksèy Beréstoff, and tell me what he is like, and what kind of person he is."
Nastia promised; and Lisa spent the day impatiently awaiting her return. In the evening, Nastia appeared.
"Well, Lisavéta Grigórievna," said she on entering the room, "I saw young Beréstoff, and looked at him to my heart's content; we were all day together."
"How was that?—tell me, tell me everything as it occurred!"
"If you please, then; we went, I, Anisia, Egórovna, Nénila, Dunka—"
"All right, I know; well, after that?"
"Allow me, I want to tell you everything as it occurred. We arrived just in time for dinner. The room was full of people. There were the Kolbiúsky, the Zaharévsky, the clerk's wife with her daughters, the Krupiúsky—"
"Well! and Beréstoff?"
"Please to wait. So we sat down to dinner, the clerk's wife at the post of honour, I next to her—the daughters sulked; but much I care about them—"
"Dear me, Nastia, how tiresome thou always art with thy endless particulars!"
"But you are so very impatient! Well, then, we got up from table—and we had sat there three hours, and the dinner was splendid; we had for sweets, blue, red, and striped blancmange. On leaving the table, we went into the garden to have a game at catch-play, and there the young master joined us."
"Well! is it true that he is good-looking?"
"Wonderfully good-looking handsome, one may say. Erect, tall, with such a colour———"
"Really? and I always thought that he was pale. Well? what did he look like? Sad—pensive?"
"Dear, no! I have never met with any one more lively than he is. He took it into his head to join in the game with us."
"To join in the game with you! Impossible!"
"Very possible. And what is more, he would catch and kiss us!"
"Say what thou wilt, Nastia, it is a story."
"Indeed, it is not. I could hardly get rid of him. He would spend the whole day with us."
"How is it, then, people say he is in love, and will look at no one?"
"I do not know; as to myself he looked even too much at me, as also at Tánia, and the clerk's daughter, and at Pasha Kolbiúsky also; and, truth to say, he offended no one—he is so indulgent."
"Now you surprise me! And what do they say of him at home?"
"They say he is a capital gentleman—so good, so cheerful. One thing only is amiss he likes running after the girls too much. But, in my opinion, that is no great harm: he will sober down in time."
"How much I should like to see him!" said Lisa, with a sigh.
"Why, where is the difficulty? Tugilevo is not far from us—three versts only: take a walk or a ride in that direction; you are sure to meet him. He goes out daily, early in the morning, with his gun."
"No, that would not do. He might fancy that I am running after him. Besides, our fathers are not on good terms, so that anyhow I cannot make his acquaintance. But,—Nastia! shall I tell thee what? I shall dress as a peasant girl!"
"Why, certainly: put on a coarse shirt, and a sarafan[2] and go boldly to Tugilevo. I'll be bound Beréstoff will not pass you by."
"And I can so well imitate the peasants, as they speak here. Oh, Nastia! dear Nastia! what a glorious idea!"
And Lisa laid herself down to sleep, fully intending to carry out her lively project. She set about to mature her plans, and the very next morning sent to the market for some coarse linen, blue nankeen, and brass buttons, cut out a shirt and sarafan, with the help of Nastia, and put all the female servants to work, so that everything was ready when evening came. Lisa tried on her new finery, and was obliged to confess before her looking-glass that she had never yet seen herself to such advantage. She rehearsed her part, bowed low when walking, and shook her head several times, in imitation of plaster-of-Paris cats, speaking the peasant dialect, and covering her face with her sleeve when laughing, all of which elicited Nastia's complete approbation. There was but one draw-back: she endeavoured to cross the yard barefooted, but the thorns pricked her tender feet, and the sand and stones she found unbearable. Nastia came to her aid here also: she measured Lisa's foot, and hurried off to the fields to the shepherd Trophim, to whom she gave an order for a pair of bark-shoes, according to the measure delivered. Day had dawned on the morrow, and Lisa was already awake. The whole house slept. Nastia was awaiting the shepherd at the gate. The horn sounded, and the village herds were driven past her master's house. Trophim, on seeing Nastia, gave her a pair of small parti-coloured bark-shoes, receiving in recompense a half rouble. Lisa quietly proceeded to attire herself as a peasant, and, having in a whisper given Nastia some directions respecting Miss Jackson, slipped through the back gate and ran across the kitchen-garden into the fields.
The sky was lighting up in the east, and the golden tiers of clouds appeared to await the sun as courtiers await their sovereign; the clear sky, the morning freshness, the dew, the slight breeze, and the singing of birds, filled Lisa's heart with childish delight; the fear of encountering a familiar face seemed to give her wings. On reaching the limits of her father's property, she slackened her pace. It was here that she was to wait for Aleksèy. Her heart beat fast, she knew not why; but do not the very apprehensions which are associated with our youthful frolics constitute their principal charm? Lisa had now penetrated into the densest part of the wood. Its dull repeating murmur seemed to welcome the young girl. Her mirth became less buoyant. She fell little by little into a sweet reverie. She thought—but is it possible to define accurately the thoughts of a young lady of seventeen who is alone in a wood at five o'clock on a spring morning? She walked thus pensively along a road shadowed on both sides by tall trees, when she was suddenly startled by the bark of a sportsman's beautiful dog. Lisa screamed with alarm. A voice was heard at the same moment, Tout beau, Sbogar ici—and a young sportsman appeared from behind some bushes.
"Do not be afraid, my dear," said he to Lisa; "my dog does not bite."
Lisa had already found time to recover from her fright, and knew how to take advantage of such an opportunity.
"But, sir," said she, feigning to be partly shy and partly frightened, "I am afraid; look, she is a wicked one, she might fly again."
Aleksèy (my reader has already recognized him) was in the meantime eying narrowly the young peasant girl.
"I shall escort thee, if thou art afraid," said he; "thou wilt let me walk by thee, wilt thou not?"
"Who hinders thee?" answered Lisa; "freedom is for the free, and the road is public."
"Where dost thou come from?"
"From Prilútchino; I am the daughter of Vasily, the blacksmith, and I am going to gather mushrooms."
Lisa was carrying a bark-basket suspended by a cord.
"And thou, sir? thou art from Tugilévo, I suppose?"
"I am, indeed," said Aleksèy, "I am the young master's valet."
Aleksèy wished to assimilate their positions. But Lisa looked at him and burst out in a laugh.
"Thou art telling a story," said she; "but it is not a fool thou hast got hold of. I can see that thou art the master himself."
"What makes thee think so?"
"Everything."
"But—?"
"Well, how is it possible not to distinguish the servant from the master? Thy dress is different, thou speakest differently, and thou even callest the dog in an outlandish way."
Aleksèy fancied Lisa more and more, and not being accustomed to stand upon ceremony with young country girls, he was about to embrace her, but Lisa jumped aside, and assumed suddenly such a severe and freezing look, that Aleksèy was amused; it kept him from any further attempts.
"If you wish that we should remain friends henceforth," said she, with importance, "you must, please, not forget yourself."
"Who taught thee so much wisdom?" said Aleksèy, with a laugh. "Can it be my friend, Nástinka, your young mistress's maid? Is that the way civilization travels?"
Lisa felt that she had overdone her part, and corrected herself immediately.
"And what dost thou fancy?" said she: "thinkest thou that I have never been in a gentleman's house? No fear; I have seen and heard most things. However," she continued, "it is not in talking to thee that I shall find mushrooms. Thou, sir, must go one way, and I another. Fare thee well."
Lisa was about to withdraw.
Aleksèy seized her hand. "What is thy name, my soul?"
"Akulina!" answered Lisa, endeavouring to free her fingers from Aleksèy's grasp. "Let go, sir; it is time for me to be running home."
"Well, my friend Akulina, I shall certainly come and see thy father, Vasily the blacksmith."
"What next?" replied Lisa quickly: "for Heaven's sake do not come. It will go badly with me, if they find out at home that I have been taking a walk in the woods with a gentleman; my father, Vasily the blacksmith, will beat me to death."
"But I must see thee again, without fail."
"Well, then, may be I shall come again to gather mushrooms some day."
"When?"
"Well, say to-morrow."
"Dear Akulina, I would kiss thee, but dare not. To-morrow, then, about this time, eh?"
"Yes, yes."
"Thou wilt not deceive me?"
"I shall not."
"Swear that thou wilt not."
"Well then, by Holy Friday, I shall come."
The young people separated. Lisa went out of the wood, scampered across the fields, stole into the garden, and ran headlong towards the farm, where Nastia was awaiting her. There she changed her dress, gave disconnected answers to the questions of her impatient confidante, and proceeded to the drawing-room. The table was laid, breakfast ready, and Miss Jackson, already painted and laced in until her figure assumed the shape of a wine-glass, was cutting thin slices of bread and butter. Her father praised her for taking an early walk.
"There is nothing healthier," said he, "than to rise with the dawn." And he thereupon cited several instances of human longevity, taken from English journals, remarking that none of those who had lived over a century had been addicted to spirits, and that they all rose at daybreak in winter as in summer.
Lisa did not listen to him. She was mentally reviewing all the circumstances attending her morning meeting and the entire conversation of Akulina with the young sportsman, and her conscience began to smite her. It was in vain that she tried to persuade herself that the nature of their interview had not exceeded the bounds of propriety, that her frolic could have no consequences whatever,—her conscience spoke louder than her reason. The promise she had made for the next day tormented her more than anything, and she was all but determined not to keep to her solemn oath. But might not Aleksèy, after vainly expecting her, go into the village, and find Vasily the blacksmith's daughter, the real Akulina, a fat, pock-marked girl, and thus obtain a clue to her thoughtless artifice? This idea horrified Lisa, and she made up her mind to appear in the wood as Akulina, the next morning.
At to Aleksèy, he was enchanted; he spent the whole day thinking of his new acquaintance; the image of the dark beauty haunted his imagination even at night. It was barely dawn, and he was already dressed. He did not wait to load his gun, but went into the fields accompanied by his faithful Sbogar, and hurried to the trysting-place. Nearly half an hour was spent in insupportable expectation; at last he caught a glimpse of a blue sarafan in the bushes, and rushed to welcome his dear Akulina. She smiled at his enraptured show of gratitude; but Aleksèy at once noticed that her face bore traces of sadness and anxiety. He insisted upon knowing the cause.
Lisa avowed that she considered'her conduct imprudent, that she repented, that she did not wish to fail in her promise this time, but that this meeting was to be their last, and she begged him to break off an acquaintance which could be productive of no good. All this was of course said in the provincial dialect, but the ideas and feelings, so uncommon in a simple country girl, struck Aleksèy with astonishment. He exhausted all his eloquence in endeavouring to deter Akulina from her decision; he assured her of the purity of his intentions, promised never to give her cause for repentance, to submit to her in all things, and implored her not to deprive him of the one joy—that of seeing her alone, were it but every other day, but twice a week. He spoke in the language of true passion, and was at that moment really in love.
Lisa listened in silence. "Promise me," said she at last, "that thou wilt never seek me in the village—never inquire after me. Promise me not to look for other meetings but those which I shall myself assign."
Aleksèy was about to swear by Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile. "I do not require oaths," said Lisa, "thy word is sufficient."
After that they walked about in the wood in friendly conversation, until Lisa said: "It is time." They parted, and Aleksèy, when left alone, could not understand how a simple country girl had contrived in two meetings to possess such influence over him. His intercourse with Akulina contained all the charms of novelty, and although the restrictions imposed by the strange maiden seemed burdensome, the idea of breaking his word never entered his head. The fact was, that in spite of his ominous ring, his mysterious correspondence, and his gloomy disenchantment, Aleksèy was a good and ardent youth, with a pure heart, capable of innocent enjoyments.
Were I to follow my inclinations, I would here certainly give a detailed account of how the young people met, of their growing attachment and confidence in each other, and of their occupations and discourse; but I am aware that the greatest portion of my readers would not share this pleasure with me. As a rule these details are nauseating, and I shall therefore pass them over and remark briefly, that two months had scarcely gone by before my Aleksèy was hopelessly in love, and Lisa, though more reserved than he, not more indifferent. They were both happy in the present, and cared but little for the future.
The thought of inseparable ties had crossed their minds more than once; but they had never hinted at it to each other. The reason is obvious: however much attached to his dear Akulina Aleksèy might have been, he could not forget the distance which separated him from a poor country girl. Lisa, on her part, knew of the enmity which existed between their fathers, and dared not hope for a mutual reconciliation. Besides, her vanity was secretly stimulated by the fanciful hope of at last seeing the owner of Tugilévo at the feet of the Prilútchina blacksmith's daughter.
An important event suddenly threatened to interrupt their mutual relations.
On a clear cold morning (one of those in which our Russian autumn abounds) Ivan Petróvitch Beréstoff went out for a ride, taking with him three couples of sporting dogs, a groom, and several stable boys, provided with, rattles. Grigory Ivánovitch Múromsky, tempted by the brightness of the weather, ordered his short-tailed mare to be saddled, and at about the same hour rode out at a trot round his Anglicized domain. On nearing the wood he noticed his neighbour, who sat his horse proudly in an overcoat lined with fox-fur, on the look-out for a hare which the boys were hunting out of the thicket with their shouts and rattles. Had Grigory Ivánovitch been able to foresee this encounter, he would certainly have turned back; but he had come upon Beréstoff quite unexpectedly, and was now within pistol-shot of him. There was no help for it; Múromsky, like a well-bred European, rode up to his enemy, and politely addressed him. Beréstoff replied with something of the zeal a chained bear displays when ordered by his keeper to make his bow to the public. At that moment a hare leapt out of the thicket and ran off into the fields. Beréstoff and the groom shouted with all their might; they loosed the dogs, and followed at full speed. Múromsky's horse, unaccustomed to the chase, started and ran away with him. Múromsky, who considered himself a good horseman, loosened the reins, and was secretly congratulating himself upon such an opportunity for freeing himself from an undesirable companion. But having gone as far as a ravine which it had not hitherto noticed, his horse suddenly swerved and unseated its rider. Having fallen rather heavily on the frozen ground, he lay cursing his short-tailed mare, which, as if coming to her senses, stopped so soon as she became aware of the removal of her burden. Ivan Petróvitch rode up to him, inquiring whether he were hurt. The groom, having in the meantime secured the peccant horse, led it by the bridle. He assisted Múromsky into his saddle, and Beréstoff invited him to his house. Múromsky could not refuse, feeling that he was under an obligation, and it was thus that Beréstoff returned home full of honours, having hunted down a hare, and leading his wounded adversary, almost like a prisoner of war.
The two neighbours breakfasted together, conversing in quite a friendly way. Múromsky asked Beréstoff for his droskhy, acknowledging that he was unable to ride home after his fall. Beréstoff saw him himself over the threshold, and Múromsky would not take his leave until he had exacted the promise that he and Aleksèy Ivánovitch would dine at Prilútchino the very next day. In this manner an old and deeply rooted enmity seemed about to be brought to an end through the shyness of a short-tailed mare.
Lisa rushed out to meet Grigory Ivánovitch. "What does this mean, papa?" asked she in surprise: "what makes you lame? Where is your horse, and whose droshky is this?"
"That is what thou wilt never guess, my dear," replied Grigory Ivánovitch, and he then related to her what had occurred. Lisa could not believe her ears. Grigory Ivánovitch, without giving her time to recover from her surprise, informed her that both the Beréstoffs were to dine with them on the morrow.
"What are you saying!" exclaimed she, turning pale: "the Beréstoffs, father and son, dine with us to-morrow! No, papa, you may please yourself, but nothing will make me show myself."
"Art thou out of thy senses?" replied her father. "How long is it since thou hast become so shy? or dost thou nurse an hereditary hatred like a heroine of romance? Come, don't be silly."
"No, papa, nothing on earth, no treasure in the world, will persuade me to appear before the Beréstoffs!"
Grigory Ivánovitch shrugged his shoulders, and knowing that nothing was to be gained by contradicting her, ceased the discussion, and retired to rest after his eventful ride.
Lisavéta Grigorievna went into her own room, and called Nastia. They conferred long together on the approaching visit. "What would Aleksèy think were he to recognize his Akulina in a well-educated young lady? What opinion would he form of her conduct, of her principles, of her good sense? On the other hand, Lisa was anxious to see what impression such an unexpected meeting would produce. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind. She hastened to communicate it to Nastia; both exulted at the idea, and they made up their minds to carry out the plan without fail.
Grigory Ivánovitch inquired of his daughter the following day at breakfast whether she still intended to conceal herself from the Beréstoffs.
"Papa," answered Lisa, "I shall receive them if you wish it, but upon one condition—that, whatever my appearance, whatever I may do, you will not scold me, nor show any sign of surprise or displeasure."
"Some new freak!" said Grigory Ivánovitch, laughing. "Well, all right, I consent; do what thou wilt, my black-eyed little rogue."
With these words he kissed her on the forehead, and Lisa ran off to make ready.
At two o'clock precisely, a home-built coach, drawn by six horses, drove up to the door, round the green lawn in front of it. The old Beréstoff alighted with the aid of two of Múromsky's liveried servants. His son had followed him on horseback, and together they entered the dining-room, where the cloth was already laid. Múromsky received his guests in the most friendly manner, and having proposed a turn in the garden before dinner, and a look at the park, led the way along the carefully swept and gravelled walks. The old Beréstoff was mentally lamenting the labour and time lost on such unprofitable fancies, but considerately kept his thoughts to himself. His son did not participate either in the disapprobation of the practical landowner, or in the enthusiasm of the vain Anglomane; he was impatiently awaiting the appearance of his host's daughter, of whom he had heard much, and though his heart was, as we know, already full, youth and beauty still influenced his imagination.
Upon their return to the drawing-room, the three seated themselves; and while the old gentlemen revived reminiscences of the past days, and recapitulated anecdotes having reference to their services, Aleksèy was musing upon what part he had best enact in the presence of Lisa. He decided that cold indifference was under all circumstances the best suited. The door was opened; he turned his head with so much nonchalance, such cold carelessness, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette would have been set beating. But ill luck would have it that instead of Lisa there entered old Miss Jackson, who, painted and laced in, made a slight curtsey with lowered eyes, and Aleksèy's manly military bow was lost upon her. He had no time to prepare for a new effort, for the door was again opened^ and this time Lisa walked in. All rose; her father was about to introduce his guests, when he suddenly checked himself, and bit his lip. Lisa, his dark Lisa, was painted to her eyebrows, and rouged to an extent which outdid Miss Jackson herself: false curls, much lighter than her own hair, were arranged after the model of a Louis XIV. wig; sleeves, à l'imbecile stuck out like Madame de Pompadour's hoops; her waist was contracted into the shape of the letter X, and those of her mother's diamonds which had escaped being pawned sparkled on her fingers, her neck, and in her ears. Aleksèy could not possibly have recognized his Akulina under this ridiculous and gorgeous disguise. His father kissed her hand, and he, though vexed, followed his example; he fancied that the small white fingers trembled as he touched them, and he at the same time noticed her small foot, which was coquettishly shoe-strung and designedly thrust out. This somewhat reconciled him to the rest of her attire. As to the white and rouge we must avow that in the innocency of his heart he at first did not notice, and never afterwards suspected such a thing. Grigory Ivánovitch recollected his promise, and endeavoured not to show even a symptom of astonishment; but his daughter's joke appeared so ludicrous, that he could scarcely refrain from laughing. It did not, however, excite the risible faculties of the prime English-woman. She conjectured that the paints were produced from her drawers, and a deep blush of vexation was visible through the artificial whiteness of her face. She cast angry glances at the young offender, who, putting off all explanations to a more suitable occasion, did as if she saw them not.
They sat down to dinner. Aleksèy continued absent and thoughtful. Lisa looked prim, spoke through her teeth in a drawling voice, and only in French. Her father was watching her incessantly, not comprehending her object, but finding it all very amusing. The Englishwoman was wrathful and silent. Ivan Petróvitch alone was thoroughly at his ease; he ate for two, drank profusely, enjoyed his own merriment, conversing more freely and laughing with more zest from hour to hour.
At last they rose; the guests took their leave, and Grigory Ivánovitch gave free vent to his laughter and to his questionings.
"What put it into thy head to make fools of them?" he inquired of Lisa. "But shall I tell thee what? White paint really suits thee. I do not wish to pry into the secrets of a lady's toilette, but were I in thy place I would always use paint—of course not immoderately, but just a little."
Lisa was delighted at the success of her scheme. She embraced her father, promised to consider his advice, and ran off to pacify the irritated Miss Jackson, whom she with difficulty prevailed upon to open the door, and to listen to her justification. Lisa was ashamed to appear with such a dark complexion before a stranger; she dared not ask—she felt sure that dear, kind Miss Jackson would forgive her, &c., &c. Miss Jackson, being satisfied that Lisa had not meant to ridicule her, was appeased, kissed her, and in token of reconciliation presented her with a small pot of English paint, which Lisa accepted with a show of sincere gratitude.
My reader will guess that Lisa was not slow in seeking the meeting-place in the wood on the following morning.
"Thou wentest to our master's last night, sir," said she to Aleksèy immediately. "What dost thou think of our young mistress?"
Aleksèy replied that he had not taken notice of her.
"What a pity!" said Lisa.
"And why?" was his question.
"Because I wanted to know whether what they say is true."
"And what do they say?"
"Is what they say true, that I am like her?"
"What nonsense! Why, she is a perfect fright compared to thee."
"Oh, sir! what a shame to talk like that! Our young mistress is so fair, dresses so beautifully. How is it possible to compare me to her?"
Aleksèy swore that she was prettier than all the fair ladies put together; and, anxious to reassure her, he began to describe her mistress in such ridiculous colours that it made Lisa laugh heartily.
"But," said she, with a sigh, "however absurd our mistress may be, still I am an unlettered dunce compared to her."
"Oh!" said Aleksèy, "much there is to be unhappy about! Why, if thou wishest it, I will teach thee to read."
"Why should I not indeed try?" said Lisa.
"All right, my dear, let us begin at once."
They sat down. Aleksèy drew out his pocket-book and pencil, and Akulina learned the alphabet with surprising facility. Aleksèy could not sufficiently wonder at her aptness. The next morning she wished to learn to write. The pencil would not at first obey her, but in a few moments she formed her letters pretty fairly.
"What a wonder!" Aleksèy would say; "why, we learn more quickly than if we had followed Lancaster's system." And in truth, at her third lesson, Lisa was able to spell "Natalia, the Boyar's daughter," intermixing with her reading remarks which truly surprised Aleksèy, and she filled a sheet of paper with extracts from the same story.
A week elapsed, and they began to correspond. A hollow in an old oak served as their post-office. Nastia was fulfilling the duties of postman on the sly. Aleksèy used to deposit his half-text epistles, and find the hieroglyphics of his beloved one written on common blue paper. Akulina was rapidly acquiring a more elegant mode of expressing herself, and her mind was evidently being developed and instructed.
The reconciliation between Ivan Petróvitch Beréstoff and Grigory Ivánovitch Múromsky had in the meantime progressed to intimacy, and at last ripened into friendship under the following circumstances: Múromsky often mused on the fact that all Ivan Petr6vitch's property would at his death pass on to Aleksèy Ivánovitch, that Aleksèy Ivánovitch would thus become one of the richest landowners in the province, and such being the case there could be no reason why he should not marry Lisa. The old Beréstoff, on his part, although aware of his neighbour's peculiarities (or, as he termed them, English follies), did not for all that ignore his many good qualities. For instance: his rare abilities; Grigory Ivánovitch was nearly related to Count Pronsky, a well-known and influential man; the count might be of service to Aleksèy; and Múromsky (so thought Ivan Petróvitch) would surely be glad of the opportunity of having his daughter so comfortably settled. The old people thought over the project so frequently in their own minds, that they at last exchanged their views, embraced each other, promised to make matters straight, and set-to maturing their plans, each after his own fashion. Múromsky foresaw a difficulty; he would have to persuade his Betsy to become better acquainted with Aleksèy, whom she had not met since the memorable dinner. He fancied they did not much care for each other; at least Aleksèy had never again called at Prilúchino, and Lisa withdrew whenever Ivan Petróvitch would honour them with a visit. "Well," thought Grigory Ivánovitch, "if I could get Aleksèy to come here every day, Lisa must end by falling in love with him. That is in the course of nature. Time will do the rest."
Ivan Petróvitch was less uneasy about the success of his plans. He called his son into his study that same evening, lit his pipe, and after a pause, said, "Methinks it is a long time, Alyósha[3], since thou hast last talked of entering the army. Or has the Hussar's uniform lost its attractions?"
"No, my father," answered Aleksèy reverently, "I see it is not your wish that I should join the Hussars; it is my duty to obey you."
"That's right," answered Ivan Petróvitch; "I see thou art an obedient son: that is a consolation. I on my part do not wish to stand in thy way: I do not wish to hurry thee to enter the Civil Service at once; in the meanwhile, I should like thee to marry."
"Whom, my father?" inquired the astonished Aleksèy.
"Elisavéta Grigórievna Múromsky," answered Ivan Petróvitch. "What a bride! eh?"
"Father, I have not as yet thought of marriage."
"Thou hast not thought!—that is why I have thought for thee."
"As you please, but I do not like Lisa Múromsky."
"Thou wilt like her by-and-by. Habit will bring the liking with it."
"But I feel incapable of making her happy."
"Her happiness need not trouble thee. What! is this the way thou respectest thy father's wishes? Very well."
"As you please, but I do not wish to marry, and I shall not marry."
"Thou shalt marry, or I shall disinherit thee, and as to the estates, by———, I shall sell or squander them away, and shall not leave thee the fraction of a kopeck. I give thee three days to think it over, and do not thou dare to come to me in the meanwhile."
Aleksèy knew that when his father took a thing into his head, not even a nail, as Tarás Skotinine[4] has it, would drive it out; but Aleksèy took after his father, and was quite as difficult to overcome. He retired to his room and meditated upon the limits to a parent's will, upon Elisavéta Grigórievna, upon his father's solemn threat to make a beggar of him, and finally he thought of Akulina. He felt for the first time clearly that he was passionately in love with her: the romantic idea of marrying a country girl, and earning his own living, flashed across his mind, and the more he dwelt upon such a project, the more reasonable it appeared. The meetings in the wood had not been continued for some time in consequence of wet weather. He wrote a distracted letter to Akulina, in an easily legible hand, informing her of the evil which threatened them, and offering his hand. He at once deposited the letter in their post-office, and retired to rest perfectly at ease.
Firm in his decision, Aleksèy rode over to Múromsky's early on the following morning, to inform him frankly of his intentions. He hoped to excite his sympathy, and to gain him over.
"Is Grigory Ivánovitch at home?" asked he, pulling up his horse at the gate of the house at Prilútchino.
"No, sir," replied the servant; "Grigory Ivánovitch left quite early this morning."
"How provoking!" thought Aleksèy. "Is Elisavéta Grigórievna at home?"
"Yes, sir."
And Aleksèy, jumping off his horse, gave the servant the bridle, and walked in, without being announced.
"All will be decided," said he to himself, as he approached the drawing-room. "I shall explain it all to herself."
He entered and remained petrified! Lisa—no, Akulina, dear dark-haired Akulina, not in her sarafan, but in a white morning-dress, sat by the window, reading his letter; she was so taken up with it that she did not hear him enter the room. Aleksèy was unable to suppress a joyful exclamation. Lisa started, looked up, uttered a cry, and was about to run out. He rushed to hold her back.
"Akulina, Akulina!"
Lisa struggled to free herself.
"Mais laissez moi donc, monsieur mais êtes-vous fou?" she kept repeating, and turning away from him.
"Akulina, my friend Akulina!" reiterated he, kissing her hands.
Miss Jackson, who was witnessing the scene, knew not what to think. At that moment the door opened, and Grigory Ivánovitch entered.
"Aha!" said Múromsky; "why you appear to have settled the matter already."
My reader will spare me the unnecessary task of describing the dénouement.