Novels, Tales, Journeys

THE BLIZZARD

Over the rough road steeds go racing,

Trampling the deep snow…

There to one side is God’s church

Standing all alone.

……………­……………­

Suddenly a blizzard fills the air;

Snow falls thick and heavy;

A black raven, a whistling wing,

Hovers above the sledge;

Its prophetic cry gives voice to sorrow!

The steeds go dashing on

Peering into the darkling distance;

Their manes fly in the wind…

ZHUKOVSKY1

At the end of the year 1811, a memorable epoch for us all, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R–– was living on his estate of Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and warm-heartedness; neighbors constantly came to him to eat, to drink, to gamble away five kopecks playing Boston with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna, and some to gaze at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale, and seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many a man intended her for himself or for one of his sons.

Marya Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels and, consequently, was in love. The object of her choice was a poor army ensign on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man was burning with an equal passion and that the parents of his beloved, having noticed their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter even to think of him, and received him worse than a retired assessor.

Our lovers were in correspondence, and each day met alone in the pine wood or by the old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, bemoaned their fate, and discussed various possibilities. Corresponding and conversing in this way, they arrived (quite naturally) at the following reasoning: Since we cannot draw a breath without each other, and the will of cruel parents is an obstacle to our happiness, can we not get along without them? Of course, this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and it greatly pleased the romantic imagination of Marya Gavrilovna.

Winter came and put an end to their trysts; but their correspondence became all the livelier. In every letter Vladimir Nikolaevich implored her to entrust herself to him, to get married in secret, to hide away for some time, then to throw themselves at the feet of her parents, who of course would be moved in the end by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of the lovers, and would surely say: “Children, come to our arms!”

Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many plans for the elopement were rejected. She finally agreed to one: on the appointed day she would not have supper and would withdraw to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid was in on the conspiracy; they would both go out to the garden through the back door, find a sledge ready behind the garden, get into it and drive three miles 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, bundled up her linen and clothes, wrote a long letter to a certain sentimental girlfriend of hers, another to her parents. She said good-bye to them in the most touching expressions, excused her act by the invincible power of passion, and finished by saying that she would count it as the most blessed moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed her letter with a Tula seal that bore the image of two flaming hearts with an appropriate inscription,2 she threw herself on the bed before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams kept waking her up. First it seemed to her that, just as she was getting into the sledge to drive off to her wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her over the snow with agonizing speed, and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon…and she went flying down headlong with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloody. Dying, he begged her in a piercing voice to make haste and marry him…Other shapeless, senseless visions raced before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her agitation; their tender concern and ceaseless questions—“What’s the matter, Masha? Are you unwell, Masha?”—tore her heart. She tried to calm them, to look cheerful, and could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she would see the day off amidst her family wrung her heart. She was barely alive. She secretly took leave of all the persons, of all the objects around her.

Supper was served; her heart began to pound violently. In a trembling voice she announced that she did not want to eat and started saying goodnight to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, gave her their blessing: she all but wept. Coming to her room, she collapsed on an armchair and dissolved in tears. Her maid urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. In half an hour Masha was to leave forever her parental home, her room, her quiet maidenly life…Outside there was a blizzard; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and an omen of sorrow. Soon the whole house became quiet and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her box, and went out to the back porch. Behind her the maid carried her two bundles. They went down to the garden. The blizzard had not let up; the wind blew in her face, as if trying to stop the young criminal. She was barely able to reach the end of the garden. The sledge was waiting for them on the road. The chilled horses would not stand still; Vladimir’s coachman walked about in front of the shafts, restraining their restiveness. He helped the girl and her maid to seat themselves and stow the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew off. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the skill of the coachman Tereshka, let us now turn to our young lover.

Vladimir spent the whole day driving around. In the morning he went to see the Zhadrino priest; he had a hard time persuading him; then he went looking for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first one he presented himself to, the retired forty-year-old ensign Dravin, accepted willingly. This adventure, he assured him, was reminiscent of the old days and his hussar pranks. He persuaded Vladimir to stay for dinner and assured him that there would be no trouble finding the other two witnesses. In fact, right after dinner the surveyor Schmidt appeared in his moustaches and spurs, and the son of the police chief, a sixteen-year-old boy who had just joined the uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even swore they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them rapturously and went home to make ready.

By then it had long been dark. He sent his trusty Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed, thorough instructions, and for himself ordered a small one-horse sledge hitched up, and alone, without a coachman, set out for Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was to arrive in some two hours. He knew the way—it was at most a twenty-minute drive.

But Vladimir had barely reached the fields outside the village when the wind picked up and such a blizzard set in that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was buried; the surroundings disappeared in a dim, yellowish murk, through which white snowflakes flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir ended up in a field and tried in vain to get back to the road; the horse walked at random and kept going up onto drifts, then sinking down into holes; the sledge kept overturning; Vladimir tried only not to lose the right direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already gone by, and he had not yet reached the wood of Zhadrino. Ten more minutes went by; the wood was still not in sight. Vladimir drove over a field crossed by deep gullies. The blizzard did not let up, the sky did not clear. His horse began to tire, and he himself was dripping with sweat, even though he was constantly up to his waist in snow.

Finally he saw that he was going the wrong way. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, to recall, to consider, and became convinced that he should have turned to the right. He drove to the right. His horse could barely walk. He had already been traveling for more than an hour. Zhadrino had to be close by. But he drove and drove, and there was no end to the field. It was all snowdrifts and gullies; the sledge kept overturning, he kept righting it. Time passed; Vladimir began to worry greatly.

Finally something showed blackly to one side. Vladimir turned that way. Coming closer, he saw a wood. Thank God, he thought, it’s close now. He skirted the wood, hoping to fall at once upon the familiar road or to circle the wood: Zhadrino was just beyond it. Soon he found the road and entered the darkness of the trees, bared by winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse took heart, and Vladimir felt more calm.

But he drove and drove, and there was no sign of Zhadrino; there was no end to the wood. Vladimir realized with horror that he had ended up in an unfamiliar forest. Despair overcame him. He whipped up the horse; the poor animal went into a canter, but soon became tired and after a quarter of an hour slowed to a walk, despite all the efforts of the unfortunate Vladimir.

The trees gradually began to thin out, and Vladimir emerged from the forest. There was no sign of Zhadrino. It must have been around midnight. Tears poured from his eyes; he drove on at random. The weather quieted down, the clouds scattered, before him lay a plain covered with a white, undulating carpet. The night was quite clear. He saw not far away a little village of four or five houses. Vladimir drove there. At the first hut he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the window, and started to knock. After several minutes a wooden shutter rose and an old man stuck out his gray beard.

“What do you want?”

“Is it far to Zhadrino?”

“Far to Zhadrino?”

“Yes, yes! Is it far?”

“Not so far, maybe seven miles.”

At that reply, Vladimir seized himself by the hair and stood motionless, like a man condemned to death.

“So where are you from?” the old man went on. Vladimir had no heart to answer questions.

“Listen, old man,” he said, “can you get me horses for Zhadrino?”

“What have we got for horses?” the muzhik replied.

“Might I at least have a guide? I’ll pay whatever he likes.”

“Wait,” said the old man, lowering the shutter, “I’ll send you my son. He’ll take you there.”

Vladimir started to wait. A minute had not passed before he began to knock again. The shutter rose, the beard appeared.

“What do you want?”

“Where is your son?”

“He’ll be right out, he’s putting his boots on. Maybe you’re chilly? Come in and warm up.”

“No, thank you, send your son out quickly.”

The gate creaked; a lad with a cudgel came out and walked ahead, now showing, now searching for the road, buried under snowdrifts.

“What time is it?” asked Vladimir.

“It’ll be dawn soon,” the young muzhik replied. 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 his guide and drove to the priest’s house. His troika was not in the yard. What news awaited him!

But let us return to the good Nenaradovo landowners and see what is going on there.

Nothing.

The old folk woke up and came out to the drawing room. Gavrila Gavrilovich in a nightcap and flannelette jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a quilted dressing gown. The samovar was brought, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent a girl to find out about Marya Gavrilovna’s health and how she had slept. The girl came back, announcing that the young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now and would presently come to the drawing room. Indeed, the door opened, and Marya Gavrilovna came to greet her papa and mama.

“How’s your head, Masha?” asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.

“Better, papa,” Masha replied.

“You must have had fume poisoning yesterday, Masha,” said Praskovya Petrovna.

“Perhaps, mama,” said Masha.

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.

We have already said that, despite her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was as surrounded by suitors as before. But they all had to step back when the wounded hussar colonel Burmin appeared in her castle, with a St. George in his buttonhole9 and with an “interesting pallor,” as the local young ladies used to say. He was about twenty-six. He came on leave to his estate, which was next to Marya Gavrilovna’s village. Marya Gavrilovna singled him out at once. In his presence, her habitual pensiveness brightened up. It could not be said that she flirted with him; but a poet, observing her behavior, would have said:

Se amor non è, che dunque?…10

Burmin was indeed a very nice young man. His was just the sort of mind that women like: a mind decorous, observant, without any pretensions, and light-heartedly mocking. His conduct with Marya Gavrilovna was simple and unconstrained; but whatever she said or did, his soul and his gaze followed her. He seemed to be of a quiet and modest disposition, but rumor averred that he had once been a terrible scapegrace, though that did him no harm in the eyes of Marya Gavrilovna, who (like all young ladies generally) took pleasure in excusing pranks that betrayed a boldness and fervor of character.

But most of all…(more than his tenderness, more than his pleasant conversation, more than his interesting pallor, more than his bandaged arm) most of all it was the young hussar’s silence that piqued her curiosity and imagination. She could not help realizing that he liked her very much; probably he, too, with his intelligence and experience, had already been able to notice that she had singled him out: how was it, then, that until now she had not seen him at her feet and had not yet heard his declaration? What held him back? The timidity inseparable from true love, pride, the teasing of a clever philanderer? It was a riddle to her. Having given it a good deal of thought, she decided that timidity was the only cause of it, and proposed to encourage him by greater attentiveness and, depending on the circumstances, even by tenderness. She prepared the most unexpected denouement, and awaited with impatience the moment of a romantic declaration. Mystery, of whatever sort it might be, is always a burden for the feminine heart. Her military operation had the desired effect: at any rate Burmin fell into such pensiveness and his dark eyes rested on Marya Gavrilovna with such fire that the decisive moment seemed to be near. The neighbors spoke of the wedding as of an already settled matter, and the good Praskovya Petrovna rejoiced that her daughter had finally found herself a worthy match.

The old woman was sitting alone in the drawing room one day, laying out a game of grande patience,11 when Burmin came into the room and at once inquired about Marya Gavrilovna.

“She’s in the garden,” the old woman replied. “Go to her, and I’ll wait for you here.” Burmin went, and the old woman crossed herself and thought, “Maybe the matter will be settled today!”

Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna by the pond, under a willow tree, with a book in her hand and wearing a white dress, a veritable heroine of a novel. After the initial questions, Marya Gavrilovna deliberately stopped keeping up the conversation, thus intensifying the mutual embarrassment, which could only be dispelled by a sudden and resolute declaration. And so it happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, declared that he had long been seeking a chance to open his heart to her, and asked for a moment of attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed the book and lowered her eyes in a sign of consent.

“I love you,” said Burmin, “I love you passionately…” (Marya Gavrilovna blushed and lowered her head still more.) “I have acted imprudently, giving myself up to the sweet habit, the habit of seeing you and hearing you every day…” (Marya Gavrilovna recalled the first letter of St. Preux.12) “Now it is already too late to resist my fate; your memory, your dear, incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and delight of my life; but it still remains for me to fulfill a painful duty, to reveal to you a terrible secret, and to place an insurmountable obstacle between us…”

“It has always existed,” Marya Gavrilovna interrupted with animation. “I could never have been your wife…”

“I know,” he replied softly. “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of mourning…My good, dear Marya Gavrilovna! Do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you could have agreed to make my happiness, if…don’t speak, for God’s sake, don’t speak. You torment me. Yes, I know, I feel that you could be mine, but—I am the most wretched of creatures…I am married!”

Marya Gavrilovna glanced up at him in astonishment.

“I am married,” Burmin went on. “I’ve been married for four years now, and I don’t know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether we are ever to see each other!”

“What are you saying?” Marya Gavrilovna exclaimed. “This is so strange! Go on; I’ll tell you afterwards…but go on, if you please!”

“At the beginning of 1812,” said Burmin, “I was hurrying to Vilno, where our regiment was. Coming to a posting station late one night, I ordered horses to be hitched up quickly, when a terrible blizzard suddenly arose, and the stationmaster and the coachmen advised me to wait. I heeded their advice, but an incomprehensible restlessness came over me; it seemed as if someone was pushing me. Meanwhile the blizzard did not let up. I couldn’t help myself, ordered them again to hitch up, and drove off into the storm. The coachman took it into his head to go along the river, which was supposed to shorten our way by two miles. The banks were snowbound; the coachman drove past the place where he should have turned onto the road, and as a result we found ourselves in unknown parts. The storm did not let up. I saw a little light and told the coachman to go there. We came to a village; there was a light in the wooden church. The church was open and several sledges stood inside the fence; people were moving about on the porch.

“ ‘This way! This way!’ several voices shouted. I told my coachman to go there. “ ‘For pity’s sake, why are you so late?’ somebody said to me. ‘The bride has fainted; the priest doesn’t know what to do; we were about to go back. Get out quickly.’ I silently 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 God,’ she said, ‘you’ve come at last. You were nearly the death of the young miss.’

“The old priest came to me and asked, ‘Shall we begin?’

“ ‘Begin, begin, father,’ I replied distractedly.

“The girl was helped to her feet. Not bad looking, I thought…Incomprehensible, unpardonable frivolity…I stood beside her at the altar; the priest was in a hurry; the three men and the maid supported the bride and were occupied only with her. We were married.

“ ‘Kiss now,’ they said to us. My wife turned her pale face to me. I was about to kiss her…She cried out:

“ ‘Aie! It’s not him, not him!’ and fell unconscious.

“The witnesses fixed their frightened eyes on me. I turned, walked out of the church unhindered, threw myself into my kibitka, and shouted: ‘Drive!’ ”

“My God!” cried Marya Gavrilovna. “And you don’t know what became of your poor wife?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Burmin. “I don’t know the name of the village where I was married; I don’t remember what station I stopped at. I ascribed so little importance to my criminal prank at the time that, having driven away from the church, I fell asleep and woke up the next morning, already three stations away. The servant who was with me then died in the campaign, so that I also have no hope of finding the woman on whom I played such a cruel joke and who is now so cruelly revenged.”

“My God, my God!” said Marya Gavrilovna, seizing his hand. “So that was you! And you don’t recognize me?”

Burmin went pale…and threw himself at her feet…