Please note that we have attempted to translate this story as literally as possible prioritising accuracy over literary style for educational purposes.
Horses gallop through the mounds
Trampling the deep snow...
There, to the side is God’s church
Visible alone.
Suddenly a blizzard's all around;
The snow hurls down in flakes;
The black crow whistling its wings
Sweeps low over the sledge;
The prophetic moan cries sorrow!
The hastening horses
Peer into the dark distance,
Their manes rising in fear.
Zhukovsky
At the end of the year 1811, an epoch memorable for us, there lived on his estate Nenaradovo the kind Gavril Gavrilovich R. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and friendliness; neighbours came to his house constantly to eat, to drink, to play a game of 'Boston' for five copecks stakes with his wife, and some to have a look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale seventeen year old maiden. She was considered a good match, and many intended her for themselves or for their sons.
Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and consequently was in love. The object chosen by her was a poor army lieutenant, staying on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man burned with equal passion, and that the parents of his beloved, observing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to think of him, and received him worse than the district court assessor.
Our lovers kept up a correspondence and saw each other alone in the pinewood or by the old chapel. They exchanged vows of eternal love, complained of their fate and made various plans. Corresponding and conversing in this fashion, they (quite naturally) arrived at the following conclusion: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents prevents our happiness, couldn't we do without it [their consent]? It goes without saying that this fortunate idea occurred first to the young man, and strongly appealed to Marya Gavrilovna's romantic imagination.
Winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence grew all the more lively. Vladimir Nicolaevich in every letter implored her to become his, to marry secretly, remain in hiding for a time, and then throw themselves at the feet of her parents who would, of course, finally be touched by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers and be sure to say to them: 'Children, come to our arms!'
Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many plans of elopement were rejected by her. At last she consented: on the appointed day she was to have no supper and retire to her room on the pretext of headache. Her maid was in the conspiracy; they were both to slip by the back door into the garden, find at the other side of it a sledge waiting for them, get into it and drive five versts from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be waiting for them.
On the eve of the decisive day Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, tied her linen and dresses into bundles, wrote a long letter to a young lady of great sensibility, her friend, and another to her parents. She took leave of them in most touching words, excused her action by the irresistible force of passion, and finished by declaring that as most blissful moment of her life she will consider the one when she will be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula seal, on which were depicted two flaming hearts and an appropriate inscription, she threw herself on to her bed just before daybreak and dozed off, but terrible dreams woke her up every minute. Once it seemed to her that just as she was getting into the sledge to go to get married, her father stopped her, dragged her painfully fast over the snow, and threw her into a dark bottomless dungeon ... and she flew headlong, her heart fluttering desperately. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale and covered with blood. He, dying, implored her in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him.... Other visions, senseless and hideous, flitted before her in rapid succession.
At last she got up, paler than usual, and with a genuine headache. Her father and mother noticed her uneasiness, their tender solicitude and constant questions 'What is it, Masha?' 'Are you unwell, Masha?' wrung her heart. She tried to reassure them, to appear gay, and could not. Evening came. The thought that she was spending it for the last time in the midst of her family, made her heart ache. She could scarcely breathe; she was secretly taking leave of every person and every object around her.
Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she declared that she did not feel like eating, and bade good night to her father and mother. They kissed and blessed her as usual: she started weeping. Having come to her room she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. Her maid pleaded with her to calm herself and take courage. All was ready. In half an hour Masha would have to leave forever her parental home, her room, her peaceful girlhood.... Outside a snowstorm was raging, the wind howled, the shutters shook and clattered; everything seemed to her a threat and a mournful omen. Soon all was quiet and asleep in the house. Masha wrapped herself up in a shawl, put on a warm cloak, took her casket, and came out by the back door. The maid followed her, carrying two bundles. They went out into the garden. The snowstorm did not abate; the wind blew against them as though trying to stop the young criminal. They with difficulty reached the end of the garden. In the road the sledge was waiting for them. The horses were feeling the cold and could hardly stand still; Vladimir's coachman paced to and fro in front of the shafts, restraining the spirited animals. He helped the young lady and her maid to settle in the sledge and arrange their bundles and the casket, took up the reins, and the horses flew. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and of the coachman Tereshka's skill, let us turn to our young lover.
Vladimir spent the whole day driving from place to place. In the morning he went to see the priest at Zhadrino, and had much difficulty in arranging matters with him; then he went ito look for prospective witnesses among, the neighboring landowners. His first call was to a retired cavalry officer, Dravin, a man of forty, who readily consented, saying that this adventure reminded him of the old days and of the hussars' frolics. He persuaded Vladimir to stay to dinner and assured him that there would be no difficulty in finding the two other witnesses. And indeed immediately after dinner two guests arrived: Schmidt, the surveyor, who wore a moustache and spurs, and the police-captain's son, a boy of sixteen not long ago enlisted in the uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir's offer, but swore that they were ready to lay down their lives for him. He embraced them enthusiastically and went home to get ready.
Dusk had long fallen. He sent his faithful Tereshka with the troika to Nenaradovo, giving him detailed and careful instructions, ordered a small sledge with one horse for himself, and set out without a coachman to Zhadrino where in a couple of hours Marya Gavrilovna was to arrive. He knew his way, and it was only a twenty minutes' drive.
But no sooner had Vladimir come into the open field than the wind rose and such a snowstorm blew up that he could not see a thing. The road was instantly buried in snow; everything around disappeared in a thick yellowish haze through which white flakes of snow were flying; the sky was merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in the open plain and vainly tried to regain the road; his horse moved at random, now climbing a snowdrift, now sinking into a pit; the sledge constantly turned over. All that Vladimir endeavored to do was not to lose his bearings. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had passed and he had not yet reached the Zhadrino copse. Another ten minutes passed; the copse was still not to be seen. Vladimir was driving across a plain criss-crossed by deep ravines. The snowstorm did not abate, the sky did not clear. The horse began to tire, and he was bathed in perspiration, although every minute he sank waist-deep in the snow.
At last he saw that he was going in the wrong direction. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, to recall his movements, to consider where he was, and decided that he should have turned to the right. He went to the right. His horse was scarcely able to walk. He had been more than an hour on his way. Zhadrino should have been close by. But he drove on and on, and the plain was endless. It was nothing but snowdrifts and ravines; the sledge turned over every minute and every minute he righted it. Time passed; Vladimir began to feel extremely uneasy.
At last, on one side something showed black, Vladimir turned in that direction. As he drew near he saw a copse. 'Thank God,' he thought, 'it isn't far now.' He drove alongside the copse, hoping to strike the familiar road at once, or to drive round the copse: Zhadrino lay just behind it. He soon found the road and entered into the darkness under the trees uncovered by winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse rallied, and Vladimir regained his composure.
But he went on and on, and Zhadrino was not to be seen; the copse was endless. Vladimir saw with horror that he had entered a forest he did not know. Despair possessed him. He struck the horse; the poor animal broke into a trot, but soon began to flag, and quarter of an hour later walked along at foot pace, in spite of all the endeavours of poor Vladimir to urge it on.
Gradually the trees began to thin, and Vladimir came out of the forest. Zhadrino was not to be seen. It must have been about midnight. Tears streamed from his eyes; he drove on at random. The storm had ceased. The clouds were dispersing; a plain covered with a white, wavy carpet lay before him. The night was fairly clear. He saw not far away a hamlet consisting of four or five homesteads. Vladimir drove up to it. At the first cottage he jumped off , ran up to the window, and began knocking. After a few minutes the wooden shutter was lifted and an old man thrust out his grey beard.
'What do you want?'
'Is it far to Zhadrino?'
'To Zhadrino, you say?'
'Yes, yes! Is it far?'
'No, not far; about ten versts.'
At this answer Vladimir remained motionless, clutching at his hair like a man sentenced to death.
'And where do you come from?' the old man continued. Vladimir was too dispirited to answer questions.
'Can you get me some horses, old man,' he said, 'to take me to Zhadrino?'
'What sort of horses would we have!', the peasant answered.
'Can I at least have a guide? I'll pay him what he likes.' 'Wait,' said the old man, lowering the shutter. 'I'll send you my son; he'll go with you.'
Vladimir started waiting. In less than a minute he began knocking, again. The shutter was raised, the beard poked out.
'What do you want?'
'Is your son coming?'
'He won't be long, he is putting on his boots. Or are you cold? Come in and warm yourself.'
'Thank you; send your son quickly.'
The gates creaked; a young man with a thick stick came out and walked ahead, now pointing out the road covered with snowy drifts, now looking for it.
'What time is it?' Vladimir asked him.
'It will soon be light,' the young peasant answered.
Vladimir said nothing more.
Cocks were crowing and it was already light when they reached Zhadrino. The church was locked. Vladimir paid his guide and drove to the priest's house. His troika was not in the courtyard. What news awaited him!
But let us return to the good landowners at Nenaradovo and see what is happening there.
Well, nothing.
The old couple woke up and came into the drawing room, Gavril Gavrilovich in a nightcap and a warm jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a quilted dressing gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gavril Gavrilovich sent the little servant girl to inquire how Marya Gavrilovna felt and how she had rested. The girl returned saying that the young lady had had a bad night, but was feeling better now, and would come to the drawing room directly. Indeed the door opened, and Marya Gavrilovna came in to wish good morning to her father and mother.
'How is your headache, Masha?' asked Gavril Gavrilovich.
'It's better, papa,' Masha answered.
'I expect it's the charcoal fumes yesterday that gave it you,' said Praskovya Petrovna.
'May be, mamma' Masha answered.
The day passed as usual, but in the night Masha was taken ill. They sent to town for the doctor. He arrived towards evening, and found the patient delirious. She was in high fever, and for a fortnight the poor girl hovered on the brink of death.
No one in the house knew about the proposed elopement. The letters she had written on the eve of it were burnt; her maid did not say a word to anyone, fearing the masters' anger. The priest, the retired cavalry officer, the moustached surveyor, and the young uhlan were discreet, and with a good reason. The coachman Tereshka never let slip an unnecessary word, not even when he was drunk. Thus the secret was preserved by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself, in her continual delirium, gave away her secret. Her words, however, were so incoherent that her mother, who never left her bedside, could only understand from them that her daughter was desperately in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich and that probably love was the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband and with some of their neighbours and at last all unanimously agreed that evidently such was the fate of Maria Gavrilovna, that 'it is impossible to ride past one's intended', that 'poverty is not a vice', that 'one had to live not with the wealth but with the man', and so on. Moral proverbs are wonderfully useful in cases when we can think of little to say to justify ourselves.
Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen in Gavril Gavrilovich's house for ages. He had been scared away by his usual reception there. It was decided to send for him and announce to him unexpected good fortune: their consent to the marriage. But what was the amazement of the owners of Nenaradovo when in reply to their invitation they received a half-crazy letter from him! He declared that he would never set foot in their house and begged them to forget the unhappy man whose only hope was in death. A few days later they heard that Vladimir had gone to join the army. That was in 1812.
It was a long time before they ventured to tell this to the recovering Masha. She never mentioned Vladimir. Several months later, having found his name among those who had distinguished themselves and been dangerously wounded in the battle of Borodino, she fainted, and it was feared that her fever might return. But, thank heaven, the fainting fit had no bad consequences.
She was visited by another sorrow: Gavril Gavrilovich died, having left her his sole heiress. But wealth was no comfort to her; she sincerely shared Praskovya Petrovna's grief and vowed never to part from her. They both left Nenaradovo, the place of sad memories, and went to live on ***sky estate.
There too suitors circled round the charming and wealthy young lady, but she gave not the slightest encouragement to any of them. Her mother sometimes urged her to select a partner; Marya Garilovna shook her head and grew pensive. Vladimir was no more: he died in Moscow, the day before the French entered it. His memory seemed sacred to Masha: at least, she treasured everything that could remind her of him: his drawings, the books he had once read, music scores and verses he had copied out for her. The neighbours, hearing of this, marveled at her constancy and waited with curiosity for the hero bound at last triumph over the sad fidelity of this virgin Artemisia.
Meanwhile the war came to a glorious end. Our regiments were returning from abroad. Crowds ran out to meet them. Bands played the airs captured during the war: Vive Henri Quatre, Tyrolese waltzes, and arias from La Joconde. Officers who had gone to the war as mere boys came back as grown-up men, matured in the battle air, covered with military decorations. Soldiers gaily talked to one another, constantly mixing French and German words into their conversation. An unforgettable time! A time of enthusiasm and glory! How the Russian heart throbbed at the word 'Fatherland'! How sweet were the tears of reunion! How unanimously we combined the feelings of national pride with love for the Tsar! And what a moment it was for him!
Women, Russian women, were at that time inimitable. Their usual coldness disappeared. Their enthusiasm was truly ravishing, when meeting the victors they shouted hurrah!
And threw up their bonnets into the air.
What officer of the period does not admit that he was indebted to a Russian woman for his best and most precious reward?
In that brilliant time Marya Gavrilovna was living with her mother in the *** province and did not see how the two capitals celebrated the army's home-coming. But in country towns and villages the general enthusiasm was perhaps even greater. The appearance of an officer in these places was for him a genuine triumph, and a lover in a frock-coat had a hard time of it in his company.
We have already said that in spite of her coldness Marya Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to retreat when there appeared in her castle a wounded colonel of the hussars, Burmin, with St. George's Cross on his breast, and 'an interesting pallor,' as the local young ladies used to say. He was about twenty-six years old. He came on leave to his estates, which were situated next to the village of Maria Gavrilovna. She showed him marked attention. In his presence her usual pensiveness gave way to animation. It could not be said that she flirted with him, but a poet observing her behaviour, would have said:
Se amor non e, che dunche ... ?
Burmin was, indeed, a very dear young man. He had just the type of intellect which women like: decorous, observant, without any pretensions and gaily ironical. His manner with Marya Gavrilovna was simple and unconstrained, but whatever she said or did his spirit and glances followed closely. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest disposition, but rumour had it that he had once been a terrible scapegrace and this did not lower him in the estimation of Marya Gavrilovna, who (like all young women generally) with pleasure pardoned escapades revealing courage and ardour of character.
But more than anything else ...(more than his tenderness, more than pleasant conversation, more than the 'interesting pallor,' more than the bandaged arm), the reticence of young hussar more than anything stirred her curiosity and imagination. She could not help admitting that he liked her very much; probably he too, with his intelligence and experience, noticed that she singled him out; how was it then that she had not yet seen him at her feet and still had not heard his declaration? What restrained him? Timidity, pride, or the coquetry of a cunning ladies' man? It was a mystery to her. Having thought long and hard, she came to the conclusion that timidity was the only cause and decided to encourage him by showing him more attention, and, depending on the circumstances, even tenderness. She was preparing a most unexpected denouement, and was impatiently waiting for the moment of romantic explanation. Mystery, of whatever kind, is always irksome to a woman's heart.
Her military manoeuvers had the desired effect: at least, Burmin grew so pensive, and his black eyes gazed with such fire at Marya Gavrilovna, that the decisive moment seemed to be near. The neighbours talked of the wedding as though all had been settled, and good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that daughter had at last found a fiance worthy of her.
The old lady was sitting one day alone in the drawing room, laying out cards for grande patience, when Burmin walked into the room and at once inquired about Marya Gavrilovna. 'She is in the garden,' the old lady answered; 'you go to her, and I'll wait for you here.' Burmin went out, and the old lady crossed herself and thought: 'God grant it may all be decided today!'
Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna by the pond under a willow, with a book in her hands and in a white dress, just like the heroine of a novel. After the first questions Marya Gavrilovna deliberately ceased to keep up the conversation, intensifying in such a manner their mutual confusion, which could only be ended by a sudden and decisive explanation. And this indeed was what happened. Burmin, feeling the awkwardness of his situation, declared that he had long been seeking an opportunity to open his heart to her, and demanded a minute's attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed the book and lowered her eyes as a sign of consent.
'I love you,' said Burmin, 'I love you passionately. . . (Marya Gavrilovna blushed and bent her head still lower.) 'I acted heedlessly, abandoning myself to the delightful habit - the habit of seeing and hearing you every day.' (Marya Gavrilovna recalled the first letter of St. Preux.) 'Now it is too late to struggle against fate; the remembrance of you, your sweet, incomparable image will be torment and joy for the rest of my life; but I must first carry out a painful duty, reveal a terrible secret, and put an insurmountable barrier between us... '
'It has always existed,' Marya Gavrilovna interrupted him impetuously. 'I could never be your wife. . ..’
'I know,' he answered gently, 'I know that you loved once, but death and three years of mourning... Dear, kind Marya Gavrilovna! do not try to deprive me of my last comfort: the thought that you would consent to make me happy, if only ... don't speak, for God's sake, don't say anything. You torture me. Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been mine, but - I am the unhappiest creature ... I am married!'
Marya Gavrilovna looked at him in astonishment.
'I am married,' Burmin continued. 'I have been married for the last four years and I do not know who my wife is, and where she is, and whether I shall ever see her!'
'What are you saying?' Marya Gavrilovna exclaimed, 'How very strange! Go on; I'll tell you afterwards... but go on, I beg you.'
'At the beginning of 1812,'said Burmin,'l was hurrying to Vilna where our regiment was stationed. Arriving one day at a posting station late in the evening, I had just ordered that horses should be harnessed at once; but suddenly a snowstorm blew up, and the postmaster and the coachmans advised me to wait. I obeyed, but an unaccountable anxiety possessed me; it was as though someone were urging me on. Meanwhile the snowstorm was not abating: I could endure no longer, gave word to harness the horses and set out in the thick of it. The coachman decided to go along the river as this would shorten our journey by nearly three miles. The river banks were snowed up, and the coachman missed the place where one could get on to the road; we thus found ourselves in an unfamiliar part of the country. The storm did not quieten; I saw a little light and told [the coachman] to go in that direction. We came to a village, there was a light in the wooden church. The church was open; several sledges stood outside the fence; people were walking about in the porch. 'Here, here!' several voices cried. I told the coachman to go right up to the church. 'For pity's sake, what delayed you?' someone said to me. 'The bride has fainted, the priest does not know what to do; we were on the point of going back. Come, be quick!' Without a word I jumped out of the sledge and went into the church dimly lit by two or three candles. A girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another was rubbing her temples. 'Thank heaven you've come at last,' said she. 'You've nearly killed my young lady.' The old priest came up to me with the question: ' Am I to begin?'-' Begin, begin, Father' I answered absentmindedly. They lifted the girl from the bench. She seemed to me rather pretty....Inexplicable, unforgivable folly ... I stood beside her before the lectern; the priest was in a hurry; the three men and maidservant supported the bride and gave her all their attention. We were married. 'Kiss each other,' they said to us. My wife turned her pale face to me. I was about to kiss her. .. She cried out: 'It isn't he! it isn't he! '- and fell down senseless. The witnesses turned their frightened eyes to me. I turned round, walked out of the church unhindered, jumped into my covered sledge, and called to the coachman: 'Go!'
'Good heavens!' cried Marya Gavrilovna, 'and you do not know what became of your poor wife?'
'I do not know,' Burmin answered. 'I do not know the name of the village where I was married; I do not remember from what station I had set off. At that time I attached so little importance to my criminal prank that having left the church I went to sleep and did not wake till the following morning, when we had reached the third station. The servant who was with me at the time died during the campaign. So I haven't any hope of tracing the girl on whom I played such a cruel joke and who is now so cruelly revenged.'
'My God, my God!' said Marya Gavrilovna, having seized his hand, 'so it was you! Don't you recognize me?'
Burmin turned pale ... and threw himself at her feet.