Novels, Tales, Journeys

Reading Roslavlev,1 I was amazed to see that its plot is based on a real event that I know all too well. I was once a friend of the unfortunate woman Mr. Zagoskin chose as the heroine of his story. He has turned public attention anew to the forgotten event, awakened feelings of indignation lulled to sleep by time, and disturbed the peace of the grave. I will defend the shade—and let the reader forgive the weakness of my pen out of respect for the promptings of my heart. I must needs speak a good deal about myself, because my fate was long bound up with the lot of my poor friend.

My coming out was in the winter of 1811. I will not describe my first impressions. It can easily be imagined what the feelings of a sixteen-year-old girl must be in exchanging upstairs rooms and teachers for continuous balls. I gave myself to the whirl of merriment with all the liveliness of my years and as yet without reflection…A pity: those times were worth observing.

Among the girls who came out together with me, Princess * * * distinguished herself (Mr. Zagoskin has called her Polina; I shall let her keep that name). We quickly became friends, and this was the occasion.

My brother, a lad of twenty-two, belonged to the ranks of the dandies back then; he had been assigned to the Foreign Office and lived in Moscow, dancing and leading a wild life. He fell in love with Polina and entreated me to bring our families closer together. My brother was the idol of our whole family, and with me he did as he liked.

Having become close with Polina to please him, I soon found myself sincerely attached to her. There was much that was strange in her and still more that was attractive. I did not yet understand her, but I already loved her. Imperceptibly I began to look with her eyes and to think with her thoughts.

Polina’s father was a worthy man, i.e., he drove a tandem and wore a key and a star, though he was simple and flighty. Her mother, on the other hand, was a staid woman and distinguished by her gravity and common sense.

Polina appeared everywhere; she was surrounded by admirers; they paid court to her—but she was bored, and boredom gave her an air of pride and coldness. That went extraordinarily well with her Grecian face and dark eyebrows. I exulted when my satirical observations brought a smile to that regular and bored face.

Polina read an extraordinary amount, and without any discrimination. She had the key to her father’s library. The library consisted for the most part of works by eighteenth-century writers. She knew French literature from Montesquieu to the novels of Crébillon. Rousseau she knew by heart. There was not a single Russian book in the library, except for the works of Sumarokov, which Polina never opened.2 She told me that it was hard for her to decipher Russian type, and she probably never read anything in Russian, not even the little verses offered her by Moscow poetasters.

Here I shall allow myself a small digression. It is thirty years now, praise God, since they began reproaching poor us for not reading in Russian and for (supposedly) being unable to express ourselves in our native language. (NB. The author of Yuri Miloslavsky wrongly repeats these banal accusations. We have all read him, and it seems he owes to one of us the translation of his novel into French.) The thing is that we would even be glad to read in Russian; but it seems our literature is no older than Lomonosov3 and is still extremely limited. Of course, it does present us with several excellent poets, but it is impossible to demand of all readers an exceptional interest in poetry. In prose we have only Karamzin’s History;4 the first two or three novels appeared two or three years ago, while in France, England, and Germany books, one more remarkable than the other, follow one after the other. We do not even see translations; and if we do, then, say what you like, I still prefer the originals. Our journals are of interest only to our literati. We are forced to draw everything, news and ideas, from foreign books; thus we also think in foreign languages (all those, at least, who do think and who follow the thoughts of the human race). Our most famous literati have admitted it to me. The eternal complaints of our writers about the neglect to which we relegate Russian books are like the complaints of Russian tradeswomen, who are indignant that we buy our hats at Sichler’s and are not content with the products of Kostroma milliners. I return back to my subject.

Memories of high society life are usually weak and insignificant even in historic epochs. However, one traveler’s appearance in Moscow left a deep impression on me. That traveler was Mme de Staël.5 She came in the summer, when most of Moscow’s inhabitants had left for the country. Russian hospitality began to bustle; they went out of their way to entertain the famous foreigner. Naturally, they gave dinners for her. Gentlemen and ladies gathered to gawk at her and were for the most part displeased. They saw in her a fat fifty-year-old woman, whose dress did not suit her age. They did not like her tone, her talk seemed too long, and her sleeves too short. Polina’s father, who had known Mme de Staël back in Paris, gave a dinner for her, to which he invited all our Moscow wits. There I saw the author of Corinne. She sat in the place of honor, her elbows leaning on the table, her beautiful fingers rolling and unrolling a little paper tube. She seemed out of sorts, began to speak several times, but could not go on. Our wits ate and drank their fill and seemed much more pleased with the prince’s fish soup than with Mme de Staël’s conversation. The ladies kept aloof. The ones and the others only rarely broke the silence, convinced of the insignificance of their thoughts and intimidated in the presence of the European celebrity. All through dinner Polina sat as if on pins and needles. The guests’ attention was divided between the sturgeon and Mme de Staël. They expected a bon mot from her any moment; finally a double entendre escaped her, even quite a bold one. Everyone picked it up, laughed loudly, a murmur of astonishment arose; the prince was beside himself with joy. I glanced at Polina. Her face was ablaze, and tears showed in her eyes. The guests got up from the table completely reconciled with Mme de Staël: she had made a pun, and they galloped off to spread it all over the city.

“What’s happened to you, ma chère?” I asked Polina. “Can it be that a slightly frivolous joke could embarrass you so much?”

“Ah, my dear,” Polina replied, “I am in despair! How insignificant our high society must have seemed to this extraordinary woman! She is used to being surrounded by people who understand her, on whom a brilliant observation, a strong impulse of the heart, an inspired word are never lost; she is used to fascinating conversations of the highest cultivation. And here…My God! Not a single thought, not a single remarkable word in a whole three hours! Dull faces, dull solemnity—that’s all! How boring it was for her! How weary she seemed! She saw what they needed, what these apes of enlightenment could understand, and she tossed them a pun. And how they fell upon it! I was burning with shame and ready to weep…But let her,” Polina went on heatedly, “let her take away the opinion of our society rabble that they deserve. At least she’s seen our good simple folk and understands them. You heard what she said to that unbearable old buffoon, who, just to please the foreigner, took it into his head to laugh at Russian beards: ‘A people who a hundred years ago stood up for their beards, will today stand up for their heads.’ How dear she is! How I love her! How I hate her persecutor!”

I was not the only one to notice Polina’s embarrassment. Another pair of keen eyes rested on her at the same moment: the dark eyes of Mme de Staël herself. I don’t know what she was thinking, but only that she approached my friend after dinner and got to talking with her. A few days later, Mme de Staël wrote her the following note:

Ma chère enfant, je suis toute malade. Il serait bien aimable à vous de venir me ranimer. Tâchez de l’obtenir de mme votre mère et veuillez lui presenter les respects de votre amie de S.^*1

This letter is in my keeping. Polina never explained to me her relations with Mme de Staël, for all my curiosity. She was mad about the famous woman, who was as good-natured as she was gifted.

What the passion for malicious talk can reduce one to! Not long ago I told about all this in a certain very decent company.

“Perhaps,” it was pointed out to me, “Mme de Staël was none other than Napoleon’s spy, and Princess * * * provided her with the information she needed.”

“For pity’s sake,” I said, “Mme de Staël, who was persecuted by Napoleon for ten years; the noble, good Mme de Staël, who barely managed to escape under the protection of the Russian emperor, Mme de Staël, the friend of Chateaubriand and Byron, Mme de Staël—Napoleon’s spy!…”

“It’s quite, quite possible,” the sharp-nosed Countess B. objected. “Napoleon was such a sly fox, and Mme de Staël is a subtle thing herself!”

Everyone was talking about the approaching war and, as far as I remember, rather light-mindedly. Imitation of the French tone from the time of Louis XV was in fashion. Love of the fatherland seemed like pedantry. The wits of the day extolled Napoleon with fanatical servility and joked about our reverses. Unfortunately, the defenders of the fatherland were a bit simple-minded; they were mocked rather amusingly and had no influence. Their patriotism was limited to a severe criticism of the use of the French language at gatherings, of the introduction of foreign words, to menacing outbursts against the Kuznetsky Bridge,6 and the like. Young people spoke of everything Russian with contempt or indifference and jokingly predicted for Russia the lot of the Confederation of the Rhine.7 In short, society was rather vile.

Suddenly news of the invasion and the sovereign’s appeal shocked us. Moscow was agitated. Count Rastopchin’s folk-style leaflets appeared; the people became furious. The society babblers quieted down; the ladies lost courage. The persecutors of the French language and the Kuznetsky Bridge took a firm upper hand in society, and the drawing rooms filled with patriots: one poured the French snuff from his snuffbox and began sniffing Russian; another burned a dozen French brochures; another renounced Lafite and took up foaming mead. Everybody swore off speaking French; everybody shouted about Pozharsky and Minin and started preaching a national war, while preparing for the long drive to their Saratov estates.8

Polina could not hide her contempt, just as earlier she had not concealed her indignation. Such a swift about-face and such cowardice put her out of patience. On promenades, at the Presnya Ponds, she deliberately spoke French; at the table, in the presence of servants, she deliberately challenged patriotic boasting, deliberately spoke of the numerical strength of Napoleon’s army, of his military genius. Those present turned pale, fearing denunciation, and hastened to reproach her with devotion to the enemy of the fatherland. Polina would smile contemptuously.

“God grant,” she would say, “that all Russians love their fatherland as I love it.” She astonished me. I had always known Polina to be modest and taciturn, and I could not understand where this boldness came from.

“For pity’s sake,” I said once, “what makes you mix into what’s none of our business? Let the men fight and shout about politics; women don’t go to war, and they have no business with Bonaparte.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Shame on you,” she said. “Don’t women have a fatherland? Don’t they have fathers, brothers, husbands? Is Russian blood alien to us? Or do you think we’re born only to be spun around in the ecossaise at balls and compelled to embroider little dogs on canvas at home? No, I know what effect a woman can have on public opinion or even on the heart of just one man. I don’t accept the humiliation we’re condemned to. Look at Mme de Staël: Napoleon fought with her as with an enemy force…And uncle still dares to mock her fearfulness at the approach of the French army! ‘Don’t worry, madam: Napoleon is making war on Russia, not on you…’ Oh, yes! If uncle were caught by the French, he’d be allowed to stroll about the Palais-Royal; but Mme de Staël in such a case would die in a state prison. And Charlotte Corday? And our Marfa Posadnitsa? And Princess Dashkova?9 How am I inferior to them? Certainly not in boldness of heart and resoluteness.”

I listened to Polina with amazement. Never had I suspected such ardor, such ambition in her. Alas! What had her extraordinary inner qualities and courageous loftiness of mind brought her to? It’s true what my favorite writer said: Il n’est de bonheur que dans les voies communes.^*2

The sovereign’s arrival redoubled the general agitation. The ecstasy of patriotism finally took hold of high society. Drawing rooms became debating chambers. Everywhere there was talk of patriotic donations. They repeated the immortal speech of the young Count Mamonov, who donated his entire fortune.10 After that some mamas observed that the count was no longer such an enviable match, but we all admired him. Polina raved about him.

“What are you going to donate?” she once asked my brother.

“I haven’t come into my fortune yet,” my scapegrace replied. “All in all, I’ve got thirty thousand in debts: I donate that on the altar of the fatherland.”

Polina became angry.

“For some people,” she said, “honor and the fatherland are mere trifles. Their brothers die on the battlefield, and they play the fool in drawing rooms. I don’t know if you could find a woman base enough to allow such a buffoon to pretend he’s in love with her.”

My brother flared up.

“You’re too exacting, Princess,” he retorted. “You demand that everyone see Mme de Staël in you and speak to you in tirades from Corinne. Know that a man may joke with a woman and not joke before the fatherland and its enemies.”

With those words, he turned away. I thought they had quarreled forever, but I was mistaken: Polina liked my brother’s impertinence, she forgave him his inappropriate joke for the noble impulse of indignation, and, learning a week later that he had joined Mamonov’s regiment, she herself asked me to reconcile them. My brother was in ecstasy. He immediately offered her his hand. She accepted, but put off the wedding until the end of the war. The next day my brother left for the army.

Napoleon was approaching Moscow; our troops were retreating; Moscow was alarmed. Her inhabitants were getting out one after the other. The prince and princess persuaded mother to go with them to their estate in ––sky province.

We arrived in * * *, an enormous village fifteen miles from the provincial capital. There were a great many neighbors around us, most of them newly arrived from Moscow. We all got together each day; our country life was just like city life. Letters from the army came almost every day; the old ladies looked for the location of the bivouac on the map and were angry at not finding it. Polina was interested only in politics, read nothing but newspapers and Rastopchin’s handbills, and did not open a single book. Surrounded by people whose notions were limited, constantly hearing absurd opinions and ill-founded news, she fell into deep despondency; languor took possession of her soul. She despaired of the salvation of the fatherland, it seemed to her that Russia was quickly approaching its fall, each report redoubled her hopelessness, Count Rastopchin’s police announcements put her out of patience. She found their jocular tone the height of indecency, and the measures he had taken an insufferable barbarity. She did not grasp the idea of that time, so great in its horror, the idea whose bold execution saved Russia and freed Europe. She spent hours at a time, her elbows propped on a map of Russia, counting the miles, following the quick movements of the troops. Strange ideas came to her head. Once she declared to me her intention of leaving our village, going to the French camp, making her way to Napoleon, and killing him there with her own hands. I had no difficulty persuading her of the madness of such an undertaking. But the thought of Charlotte Corday stayed with her for a long time.

Her father, as you already know, was a rather light-minded man; all he thought about was living in the country in as much of a Moscow style as possible. He gave dinners, started a théâtre de société where he staged French proverbes, and tried in every way possible to diversify our pleasures. Several captured officers arrived in town. The prince was glad of the new faces and talked the governor into letting him house them at his place…

There were four of them. Three were quite insignificant men, fanatically devoted to Napoleon, unbearably loud-mouthed, though in truth they had paid for their boastfulness with their honorable wounds. But the fourth was an extremely remarkable man.

He was then twenty-six years old. He belonged to a good family. His face was pleasant. His tone was very good. We paid attention to him at once. He accepted our kindnesses with noble modesty. He spoke little, but what he said was well grounded. Polina liked him, because he was the first who could clearly explain military actions and troop movements to her. He calmed her down, explaining that the retreat of the Russian army was not a senseless flight and was as disturbing for the French as it was infuriating for the Russians.

“But you,” Polina asked him, “aren’t you convinced of your emperor’s invincibility?”

Sénicourt (I shall also call him by the name Mr. Zagoskin gave him)—Sénicourt, after a brief pause, replied that in his situation frankness would be awkward. Polina insistently demanded an answer. Sénicourt admitted that the thrust of French troops into the heart of Russia could prove dangerous for them, that it seemed the campaign of 1812 was over, but had produced nothing decisive.

“Over!” Polina objected. “Yet Napoleon still keeps going forward, and we still keep retreating!”

“So much the worse for us,” Sénicourt replied, and changed the subject.

Polina, who was sick of both the cowardly prophecies and the foolish boasting of our neighbors, listened eagerly to judgments based on actual knowledge and impartiality. From my brother I received letters which it was impossible to make any sense of. They were filled with jokes, clever and bad, questions about Polina, banal assurances of love, and so on. Polina, reading them, became annoyed and shrugged her shoulders.

“Admit,” she said, “that your Alexei is a most empty man. Even in the present circumstances, from the battlefield, he finds a way of writing letters that mean nothing at all. What sort of conversation will he have with me in the course of a quiet family life?”

She was mistaken. The emptiness of my brother’s letters proceeded not from his own nonentity, but from a prejudice—a most insulting one for us, however: he supposed that with women one should use language adapted to the weakness of their understanding, and that important subjects do not concern us. Such an opinion would be impolite anywhere, but with us it is also stupid. There is no doubt that Russian women are better educated, read more, and think more than the men, who busy themselves with God knows what.

News spread of the battle of Borodino.11 Everyone talked about it; each one had his own most accurate information; each one had a list of the dead and wounded. My brother did not write to us. We were extremely alarmed. Finally one of those purveyors of all sorts of stuff came to inform us that he had been taken prisoner, and meanwhile announced in a whisper to Polina that he was dead. Polina was deeply upset. She was not in love with my brother and was often annoyed with him, but at that moment she saw him as a martyr, a hero, and she mourned for him in secret from me. Several times I found her in tears. That did not surprise me; I knew how painfully concerned she was with the fate of our suffering fatherland. I did not suspect that the cause of her grief was something else.

One morning I went for a stroll in the garden; Sénicourt walked beside me; we talked about Polina. I had noticed that he deeply sensed her extraordinary qualities and that her beauty had made a strong impression on him. I laughingly observed that his situation was most romantic. A wounded knight captured by the enemy falls in love with the noble mistress of the castle, touches her heart, and finally wins her hand.

“No,” Sénicourt said to me, “the princess sees me as an enemy of Russia and will never agree to leave her fatherland.”

Just then Polina appeared at the end of the alleé; we went to meet her. She approached with quick steps. Her pallor struck me.

“Moscow is taken,” she said to me, ignoring Sénicourt’s bow. My heart was wrung, tears poured down in streams. Sénicourt kept silent, his eyes lowered. “The noble, enlightened French,” she went on in a voice trembling with indignation, “celebrated their triumph in a worthy way. They set fire to Moscow. Moscow has been burning for two days now.”

“What are you saying?” cried Sénicourt. “It can’t be.”

“Wait till night,” she replied drily. “Maybe you’ll see the glow.”

“My God! He’s done for,” said Sénicourt. “Can’t you see that the burning of Moscow is the ruin of the whole French army, that Napoleon will have nothing to hold on to anywhere, that he will be forced to retreat quickly through the devastated, deserted land at the approach of winter with a disorderly and discontented army! And you could think that the French dug such a hell for themselves! No, no, the Russians, the Russians set fire to Moscow. What terrible, barbaric magnanimity! Now it’s all decided: your fatherland is no longer in danger; but what will happen to us, what will happen to our emperor…”

He left us. Polina and I could not collect our wits.

“Can it be,” she said, “that Sénicourt is right, that the burning of Moscow is the work of our own hands? If so…Oh, I can take pride in the name of the Russian woman! The whole universe will be amazed at so great a sacrifice! Now even our downfall doesn’t frighten me, our honor is saved; never again will Europe dare to fight with a people who cut off their own hands and burn their capital.”

Her eyes shone, her voice rang. I embraced her, we mingled tears of noble rapture with ardent prayers for our fatherland.

“You don’t know?” Polina said to me with an inspired look. “Your brother…He’s a happy man, he’s not a prisoner. Rejoice: he was killed for the salvation of Russia.”

I cried out and fell unconscious into her arms…

*1 My dear child, I am quite sick. It would be very nice of you to come and revive me. Try to get madame your mother’s permission and give her the respects of your friend de S.

*2 The words are apparently Chateaubriand’s. Pushkin’s note. [The words are a slightly inexact quotation from the end of Chateaubriand’s short novel René (1802): “There is happiness only along common paths.” Translator.]