Novels, Tales, Journeys

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.”