Novels, Tales, Journeys

The day passed well enough, but during the night Masha fell ill. They sent to town for the doctor. He came towards evening and found the patient delirious. She had a high fever, and for two weeks the poor patient lay on the brink of the grave.

No one in the house knew about the proposed elopement. The letters written the day before were burned; her maid said nothing to anyone, fearing the masters’ wrath. The priest, the retired ensign, the moustachioed surveyor, and the little uhlan were discreet, and not without reason. Tereshka the coachman never gave away anything unnecessary, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself gave her secret away in her ceaseless raving. However, her words were so incongruous that her mother, who never left her bedside, could understand from them only that her daughter was mortally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich and that love was probably the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband, with some neighbors, and in the end they all unanimously decided that this was clearly Marya Gavrilovna’s destiny, that you can’t escape the one you’re meant for, that poverty is no crime, that you live with a man, not with his money, and so on. Moral sayings are surprisingly useful on occasions when we can think up little to justify ourselves on our own.

Meanwhile the young lady was beginning to recover. Vladimir had not been seen in Gavrila Gavrilovich’s house for a long time. He was afraid of meeting the usual reception. They decided to send for him and announce to him an unexpected blessing: their acceptance of the marriage. But what was the amazement of the Nenaradovo landowners when, in response to their invitation, they received a half-crazed letter from him! He announced to them that he would never set foot in their house, and asked them to forget a poor wretch for whom death remained the only hope. Some days later they learned that Vladimir had left for the army. It was 1812.3

For a long time they did not dare to inform the convalescent Masha of this. She never mentioned Vladimir. Several months later, finding his name among those distinguished and gravely wounded at Borodino,4 she swooned, and they feared her delirium might return. But, thank God, the swoon had no consequences.

Another sorrow visited her: Gavrila Gavrilovich passed away, leaving her heiress to the entire estate. But the inheritance was no comfort to her; she sincerely shared the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, and swore never to part from her; the two women left Nenaradovo, a place of sorrowful memories, and went to live on their estate at * * *.

There, too, wooers swarmed around the sweet and rich young lady; but she gave no one the slightest hope. Her mother occasionally tried to persuade her to choose a companion; Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and grew pensive. Vladimir was no longer of this world: he had died in Moscow, on the eve of the French entry. His memory seemed sacred to Masha; at any rate she cherished everything that could remind her of him: the books he had once read, his drawings, the music and verses he had copied out for her. The neighbors, learning of all this, marveled at her constancy and waited with curiosity for the hero who would finally triumph over the sorrowing fidelity of this virginal Artemisia.5

Meanwhile, the war had ended in glory. Our regiments were returning from abroad. People ran to meet them. For music they played conquered songs: “Vive Henri-Quatre,” Tyrolean waltzes, and arias from Joconde.6 Officers who went off on campaign as all but boys came back matured by the air of battle and hung with medals. Soldiers talked merrily among themselves, constantly mixing German and French words into their speech. An unforgettable time! A time of glory and rapture! How strongly the Russian heart beat at the word “fatherland”! How sweet were the tears of reunion! With what unanimity we combined the feeling of national pride with love for the sovereign! And for him, what a moment it was!

The women, the Russian women, were incomparable then. Their usual coldness vanished. Their rapture was truly intoxicating when, meeting the victors, they shouted: Hurrah!

And into the air their bonnets threw.7

Who among the officers of that time would not confess that it was to the Russian woman that he owed his best, his most precious reward?…

At that brilliant time Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in * * * province and did not see how the two capitals8 celebrated the return of the troops. But in the provincial towns and villages the general rapture was perhaps still stronger. The appearance of an officer in those places was a real triumph for him, and a lover in a frock coat had a hard time in his vicinity.