Themes

THE SNOWSTORM Horses dash across the slopes, Trampling snow deep-drifted... By the wayside stands a church, Lonely cross-uplifted. Suddenly a snowstorm flings Tufted flakes about us, O'er the sledge with whistling wing Flies a crow to flout us. Weird his cry, foreboding grief! Gathering their forces, Manes upraised, toward the dark Peer the speeding horses... Zhukovsky TOWARD the end of the year 1811, a memorable period for us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R - was living on his estate of Nenaradovo. He was celebrated throughout the district for his hospitality and kindheartedness. The neighbors were constantly visiting him: some to eat and drink; some to play "Boston" at five copecks with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna; and some to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a pale, slender girl of seventeen. She was considered wealthy, and many desired her for themselves or for their sons. Marya Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in love. The object of her choice was a poor sub-lieutenant, who was then on leave of absence in his village. It need scarcely be mentioned that the young man returned her passion with equal ardor, and that the parents of his beloved one, observing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to think of him, and gave him a worse reception than if he were a retired assessor. Our lovers corresponded with each other and daily saw each other alone in the little pinewood or near the old chapel. There they exchanged vows of eternal love, lamented their cruel fate, and formed various plans. Corresponding and conversing in this way, they arrived quite naturally at the following conclusion: If we cannot exit without each other, and the will of hard-hearted parents stands in the way of our happiness, why cannot we do without their consent? Needless to mention that this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man, and that it was very congenial to the romantic imagination of Marya Gavrilovna. The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir Nikolayevich in every letter implored her to give herself up to him, to get married secretly, to hide for some time, and then throw themselves at the feet of their parents, who would, without any doubt, be touched at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would assuredly say to them: "Children, come to our arms!" Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, and many plans for elopement were rejected. At last she consented: on the appointed day she was not to take supper, but was to retire to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in the plot; they were both to go into the garden by the back stairs, and behind the garden, they would find ready a sledge, into which they were to get, and then drive straight to the church of Zhadrino, a village about five versts from Nenaradovo, where Vladimir would be waiting for them. On the eve of the decisive day, Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel, wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in the most touching terms, urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse for the step she was taking, and would up with the assurance that she would consider it the happiest moment of her life, when she should be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear parents. After having sealed both letters with a Tula seal, upon which were engraved two flaming hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw herself upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed off: but even then she was constantly being awakened by terrible dreams. First it seemed to her that at the very moment when she seated herself in the sledge, dragged her over the snow the snow with agonizing rapidity, and threw her into a dark bottomless abyss, down which she fell headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and bloodstained. With his dying breath he implored her in piercing voice to make haste and marry him... Other abominable and absurd visions floated before her one after another. At last she arose, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother observed her uneasiness: "What is the matter with you, Masha? Are you ill, Masha?" cut her to the heart. She tried to reassure them and to appear cheerful, but in vain. Evening came. The thought, that this was the last day she would pass in the bosom of her family, weighed upon her heart. She was more dead than alive. In secret she took leave of everybody, of all the objects that surrounded her. Supper was served; her heart began to beat violently. In a trembling voice she declared that she did not want any supper, and then took leave of her father and mother. They kissed her and blessed her as usual, and she could hardly restrain herself from weeping. On reaching her own room, she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears. Her maid urged he to be calm and to take courage. Everything was ready. In half an hour Masha would leave for ever her parents' house, her room, and her peaceful girlish life... Outside a snowstorm was raging; the wind howled the shutters shook and rattled, and everything seemed to her to portend misfortune. Soon all was quiet in the house: everyone was asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm cloak, took her box in her hand, and went down the back staircase. Her maid followed her with two bundles. They descended into the garden. The snowstorm had not subsided; the wind blew in their faces, as if trying to stop the young criminal. With difficulty they reached the end of the garden. On the road a sledge awaited them. The chilled horses would not keep still; Vladimir's coachman was walking up and down in front of them, trying to restrain their impatience. He held the young lady and her maid into the sledge, stowed away the box and the bundles, seized the reins, and the horses dashed off. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and to the skill of Teryoshka the coachman, we will return to our young lover. All day long Vladimir had been driving about. In the morning he paid a visit to the priest of Zhadrino, and having come to an agreement with him after a great deal of difficulty, he then set out to seek for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he presented himself, a retired cornet about forty years old, whose name was Dravin, consented with pleasure. The adventure, he declared, reminded him of his young days and his pranks in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay to dinner with him, and assured him that he would have no difficulty in finding the other two witnesses. And, indeed, immediately after dinner, appeared the surveyor Schnidt, wearing mustaches and spurs, and the son of the captain of police, a lad of sixteen, who had recently entered the Uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir's proposal, but even vowed that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with rapture, and returned home to get everything ready. It had been dark for some time. He dispatched his faithful Teryoshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed instructions, ordered for himself the one horse sleigh and set out alone, without any coachman, for Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was due to arrive in about a couple of hours. He knew the road well, and it was only a twenty-minute ride. But Vladimir scarcely found himself on the open road, when the wind rose and such a snowstorm came on that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was completely hidden; the landscape disappeared in a thick yellow fog, through which fell white flakes of snow; earth and sky merged into one. Vladimir found himself off the road, and tried vainly to get back to it. His horse went on at random, and at every moment climbed either a snowdrift or sank into a hole, so that the sledge kept turning over. Vladimir's one effort was not to lose the right direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrino wood. Another ten minutes elapsed - still no wood was to be seen. Vladimir drove across a field intersected by deep ravines. The snowstorm did not abate, the sky did not become any clearer. The horse began to grow tired, and the sweat rolled from Vladimir in great drops, in spite of the fact that he was constantly being half-buried in the snow. At last Vladimir perceived that he was going in the wrong direction. He stopped, began to think, to recollect, and compare, and he felt convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He turned to the right now. His horse could scarcely move forward. He had now been on the road for more than an hour. Zhadrino could not be far off. But on and he went, and still no end to the field - nothing but snowdrifts and ravines. The sledge was constantly being set right again. The time was passing: Vladimir began to grow seriously uneasy. At last something dark appeared in the distance. Vladimir directed his course toward it. On drawing near, he perceived that it was a wood. "Thank Heaven!" he thought, "I am not far off now." He drove along by the edge of the wood, hoping by-and-by to come upon the well-known road or to pass round the wood; Zhadrino was situated just behind it. He soon found the road, and plunged among the dark trees, now denuded of leaves by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse recovered courage, and Vladimir felt reassured. But he drove on and on, and Zhadrino was not to be seen; there was no end to the wood. Vladimir discovered with horror that he had entered an unknown forest. Despair took possession of him. He whipped the horse; the poor animal broke into a trot, but soon slackened its pace, and in about a quarter of an hour it was scarcely able to drag one leg after the other, in spite of all the exertions of the unfortunate Vladimir. Gradually the trees began to get sparser, and Vladimir emerged from the forest; but Zhadrino was not to be seen. It must now have been about midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove on at random. Meanwhile the storm had subsided, the clouds dispersed, and before him lay a level plain covered with a white undulating carpet. The night was tolerably clear. He saw, not far off, a little village, consisting of four or five houses. Vladimir drove toward it. At the first cottage he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the window and began to knock. After a few minutes, the wooden shutter was raised, and an old man thrust out his graybeard. "What do you want?" "Is Zhadrino far from here?" "Zhadrino? Far from here?" "Yes, yes! Is it far?" "Not far; about ten verst." At this reply, Vladimir clutched his hair and stood motionless, like a man condemned to death. "Where do you come from?" continued the old man. Vladimir had not the heart to answer the question. "Listen, old man," said he: "Can you find any horses to take me to Zhadrino?" "How should we have suck things as horses?" replied the peasant. "Can I at least get a guide? I will pay him whatever he asks." "Wait," said the old man, closing the shutter; "I will send my son out to you; he will direct you." Vladimir waited. But a minute had scarcely elapsed when he began knocking again. The shutter was raised, and the beard again appeared. "What do you want?" "What about your son?" "He'll be out presently; he is putting on his boots. Are you cold? Come in and warm yourself." "Thank you; send your son out quickly." The door creaked: a lad came out with a cudgel and led the way, now pointing out the road, now searching for it among the snow drifts. "What time is it?" Vladimir asked him. "It will soon be daylight," replied the young peasant. Vladimir did not say another word. The cocks were crowing, and it was already light when they reached Zhadrino. The church was locked. Vladimir paid the guide and drove into the priest's couryard. His troika was not there. what news awaited him!... But let us return to the worthy proprietors of Nenaradovo, and see what is happening there. Nothing. The old people awoke and went into the parlor, Gavrila Gavrilovich in a night-cap and flannel doublet, Praskovya Petrovna in a wadded dressing-gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent a servant to ask Marya Gavrilovna how she was and how she had passed the night. The servant returned, saying that the young lady had not slept very well, but that she felt better now, and that she would come down presently into the parlor. And indeed, the door opened and Marya Gavrilovna entered the room and wished her father and mother good morning. "How is your head, Masha?" asked Gavrila Gavrilovich. "Better, papa," replied Masha. "You must have gotten your headache yesterday from charcoal fumes," said Praskovya Petrovna. "Very likely, mamma," replied Masha. The day passed happily enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. They sent to town for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the sick girl delirious. A violent fever ensued, and for two weeks the poor patient hovered on the brink of the grave. Nobody in the house knew anything about her intended elopement. The letters written the evening before, had been burnt; and her maid, dreading the wrath of her master, had not whispered a word about it to anybody. The priest, the retired cornet, the mustached surveyor, and the little Uhlan were disreet, and not without reason. Teryoshka, the coachmen, never uttered one word too much about it, even when he was drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half-a-dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself divulged her secret during her delirious ravings. Her words were so disconected, however, that her mother, who never left her bedside, could only understand from them that her bedside, could only understand from them that her daughter was deeply in love with Vladimir Nikolayevich, and that probably love was the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her neighbors, and at last it was unanimously decided that such was evidently Marya Gavrilovna's fate, that a woman cannot escape her destined husband even on horseback, that poverty is not a crime, that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc. Moral maxims are wonderfully useful in those cases where we can invent little in our own justification. In the meantime the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long time in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich. He was afraid of the usual reception. It was resolved to send and announce of Marya's parents to his marriage with their daughter. But what was the astonishment of the proprietor of Nenaradovo, when, in reply to their invitation, they received from him a half-insane letter. He informed them that he would never set foot in their house again, and begged them to forget an unhappy creature whose only hope was death. A few days afterwards they heard that Vladimir had joined the army again. This was in the year 1812. For a long time they did not dare to announce this to Masha, who was now convalescent. She never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some months afterwards, finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted away, and it was feared that she would have another attack of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! The fainting fit had no serious consequences. Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her the heiress to all his property. But the inheritance did not console her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, vowing that she would never leave her. They both quitted Nenaradovo, the scene of so many sad recollections, and went to live on another estate. Suitors crowded round the charming heiress, but she gave not the slightest hope to any of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her to make a choice; but Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and became pensive. Vladimir no longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed to be held sacred by Masha; at least she treasured up everything that could remind her of him: books that he had once road, his drawings, his music, and verses that he had copied out for her. The neighbors, hearing of all this, were astonished at her constancy, and awaited with curiosity the hero who should at last triumph over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin Artemisia. Meanwhile the war had ended gloriously. Our regiments returned from abroad, and the people went out to meet them. The bands played the songs of the conquered: "Vive Henry-Quatre," Tyrolese waltzes and airs from "Joconde." Officers, who had set out for the war almost mere lads, returned, grown men in the martial air, their breasts hung with crosses. The soldiers chatted gaily among themselves, constantly using French and German words in their speech. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and enthusiasm! How the Russians heart throbbed at the word "Fatherland!" How sweet were the tears of reunion! With what unanimity did we mingle feelings of national pride with love for the Czar! And for him - what a moment! The women, the Russian women, were then incomparable. Their usual coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating, when welcoming the conquerors they cried "Hurrah!" "And tossed their caps into the air!" What officer of that time does not confess that to the Russian woman he was indebted for his best and most precious reward? At this brilliant period Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in the province of --, and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm was, if possible, even greater. The appearance of an officer in those sections was for him a veritable triumph, and the lover in a frock coat fared ill in his vicinity. We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to withdraw when the wounded Colonel Burmin of the Hussars, with the Order of St. George in his button-hole, and with an "interesting pallor," as the young ladies of the neighborhood observed, appeared at the manor. He was about twenty-six years of age. He had obtained leave of absence to visit his estate, which was near that of Marya Gavrilovna. Marya bestowed special attention upon him. In his presence her habitual pensiveness disappeared. It cannot be said that she flirted with him, but a poet, observing her behavior, would have said: "Se amor non'e, che dunque?" Burmin was indeed a very charming young man. He had the sort of mind which pleases women: decorous and keen, without any pretensions, and inclined to carefree mockery. His behavior toward Marya Gavrilovna was simple and frank, but whatever she said or did, both his soul and his eyes followed her. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest disposition, though it was reported that he had once been a terrible rake; but this did not injure him in the opinion of Marya Gavrilovna, who - like all young ladies - excused with pleasure follies that gave indication of boldness and ardor of temperament. But more than everything else - more than his tenderness, more than his agreeable conversation, more than his interesting pallor, more than his arm in a sling - the silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and imagination. She could not but confess that he pleased her very much; probably he, too, with his intelligence and experience, had already observed that she singled him out; how was it then that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard his declaration? What restrained him? Was it timidity, or pride, or the coquetry of crafty ladies' man? It was a puzzle to her. After long reflection, she came to the conclusion that timidity alone was the cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him by greater attention and, if circumstances should render it necessary, even by an exhibition of tenderness. She was preparing a starling denouement, and waited with impatience for the moment of the romantic explanation. A secret, of whatever nature it may be, always presses heavily upon the female heart. Her strategy had the desired success; at least Burmin fell into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested with such fire upon her, that the decisive moment seemed close at hand. The neighbors spoke about the marriage as if it were a settled matter, and good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had at last found a worthy suitor. On one occasion the old lady was sitting alone in the parlor, playing patience, when Burmin entered the room and immediately inquired for Marya Gavrilovna. "She is in the garden," replied the old lady "go out to her, and I will wait here for you." Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the cross and thought: "Perhaps the business will be settled today!" Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna near the pond, under a willow-tree, with a book in her hands, and in a white dress: a veritable heroine of a novel. After the first few questions, Marya Gavrilovna purposely allowed the conversation to drop, thereby increasing their mutual embarrassment, from which there was no possible way of escape except only by a sudden and decisive declaration. And that is what happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, declared that he had long sought an opportunity to open his heart to her, and requested a moment's attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed her book and cast down her eyes, as a sign of consent. "I love you," said Burmin: "I love you passionately." Maria Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still further. "I have acted imprudently in indulging the sweet habit of seeing and hearing you daily"... Marya Gavrilovna recalled to mind the first letter to St. Preux. "But it is now too late to resist my fate; the remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and the consolation of my life, but there still remains a painful duty for me to perform - to reveal to you a terrible secret which will place between us an insurmountable barrier..." "That barrier has always existed," interrupted Marya Gavrilovna hastily: "I could never be your wife." "I know," replied he calmly: "I know that you once loved, but death and three year of mourning... Dear, kind Marya Gavrilovna, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would have consented to make me happy, if..." "Don't speak, for Heaven's sake, don't speak. You torture me." "Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but - I am the most miserable creature under the sun - I am already married!" Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment. "I am already married," continued Burmin: "I have been married four years, and I do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I shall ever see her again!" "What are you saying?" exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. "How very strange! Continue: I will relate to you afterwards... But continue, I beg of you." "At the beginning of the year 1812," said Burmin, "I was hastening to Vilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving late one evening at once of the post-stations, I ordered the horses to be got ready as quickly as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on, and the postmaster and drivers advised me to wait till it had passed over. I followed their advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took possession of me: it seemed as if someone were pushing me forward. Meanwhile the snowstorm did not subside; I could endure it no longer, and again ordering out the horses, I started off at the height of the storm. The driver conceived the idea of following the course of the river, which would shorten our journey by three versts. The banks were covered with snow: the driver drove past the place where we should ourselves in an unknown part the place where we should have come out upon the road, and so we found ourselves in an unknown part of the country... The storm did not abate; I saw a light in the distance, and I ordered the driver to proceed toward it. We reached a village; in the wooden church there was a light. The church was open. Outside the fence stood several sledges, and people were passing in and out through the porch. "This way! This way!" cried several voices. "I ordered the driver to proceed. "In the name of Heaven, where have you been joitering?" somebody said to me. "The bride has fainted away; the priest does not know what to do, and we were just getting ready to go back. Get out as quickly as you can." "I got out of the sledge without saying a word, and went into the church, which was feebly lit up by two or three tapers. A young girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another girl was rubbing her temples. "Thank God!" said the latter. "You have come at last. You have almost killed the young lady. The old priest advanced toward me, and said: "Do you wish me to begin?" "Begin, begin, father," I replied, absently. The young girl was raised up. She seemed to me not at all bad-looking... impelled by an incomprehensible, unpardonable levity, I placed myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the priest hurried on; three men and a maid supported the bride and only occupied themselves with her. We were married. "Kiss each other!" said the witnesses to us. "My wife turned her pale face toward me. I was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: "Oh! It is not he! It is not he! And fell in a swoon. "The witnesses gazed at me in alarm. I turned round and left the church without the least hindrance, flung myself into the kibitka and cried: "Drive off!" "My God!" exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna. "And do you not know what became of your poor wife?" "I do not know," replied Burmin; "neither do I know the name of the village where I was married, nor the post-station where I set out from. At that time I attached so little importance to my wicked prank, that on leaving the church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the next morning after reaching the third station. The servant, who was then with me, died during the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever discovering the woman upon whom I played such a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged." "My God, my God!" cried Marya Gavrilovna, seizing him by the hand: "then I was you! And you do not recognize me?" Burmin blenched - and threw himself at her feet.