Novels, Tales, Journeys

Notes of a Young Man

On May 4, 1825, I was promoted to officer, on the 6th I received orders to go to the regiment in the small town of Vasilkov, on the 9th I left Petersburg.

Was it not just recently that I was a cadet; just recently that they woke me up at six in the morning; just recently that I pored over my German lesson amid the eternal noise of the corps? Now I’m an ensign, have 475 roubles in my wallet, do what I like, and gallop on post horses to the small town of Vasilkov, where I’ll sleep till eight and never speak a single word of German.

In my ears still echo the noise and shouts of frolicking cadets and the monotonous hum of assiduous students repeating vocables—le bluet, le bluet, cornflower, amarante, amaranth, amarante, amarante…Now the rumble of the cart and the jingle of the bell alone break the surrounding silence…I still cannot get used to this quiet.

At the thought of my freedom, of the pleasures of the way and the adventures awaiting me, a feeling of unutterable joy filled my soul to the point of ecstasy. But I gradually calmed down and began to observe the movement of the front wheels, making mathematical calculations. In some insensible way this pastime wearied me, and the journey no longer seemed as agreeable as at first.

On arriving at the posting station, I gave the one-eyed stationmaster my travel papers and demanded horses quickly. But to my indescribable displeasure I heard that there were no horses. I glanced into the posting register: a traveling sixth-class functionary with attendants had taken twelve horses from the town of * * * to Petersburg; General B.’s wife had taken eight; two troikas had gone off with the mail; our fellow ensign had taken the remaining two. At the station stood one courier troika, and the stationmaster could not give it to me. If perchance a courier or government messenger should come galloping up and find no horses, what would he be in for then, big trouble—he could lose his job, go begging. I tried to buy his conscience, but he stood firm and resolutely rejected my twenty kopecks. No help for it! I yielded to necessity.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” asked the stationmaster. I thanked him and busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble abode. In them was depicted the story of the prodigal son.1 In the first picture a venerable old man in a nightcap and dressing gown is sending off a restless young man, who hurriedly receives his blessing and a bag of money. In the second the depraved young man’s bad behavior is portrayed in vivid strokes; he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Next the young wastrel, in a French kaftan and cocked hat, is herding swine and shares their meal with them. His face portrays deep sadness and repentance; he remembers his father’s house, where the least servant, etc. Finally his return to his father is represented. The good old man in the same nightcap and dressing gown runs out to meet him. The prodigal son is on his knees, in the distance a cook kills the fatted calf, and the older brother vexedly questions the servants about the cause of such rejoicing. German verses are printed under the pictures. I read them with pleasure and copied them down, so as to translate them at leisure.

The rest of the pictures have no frames and are tacked to the wall. They portray the burial of a cat, the dispute between a red nose and a heavy frost, and the like—and, in moral as well as artistic terms, are not worth an educated man’s attention.

I sat by the window. No view at all. A close-packed row of uniform cottages leaning against each other. Here and there two or three apple trees, two or three rowan trees, surrounded with a flimsy fence, the unhitched cart with my trunk and cellaret.

A hot day. The coachmen have gone off somewhere. In the street golden-haired, dirty children are playing knucklebones. An old woman sits sorrowfully in front of a cottage facing me. Now and then a cock crows. Dogs lie in the sun or wander around, tongues lolling and tails hanging, and pigs run oinking from under the gate and rush off for no apparent reason.

What boredom! I go for a stroll in the fields. A dilapidated well. Beside it a shallow puddle. In it some yellow ducklings frolic, supervised by a stupid duck, like spoiled children with a French governess.

I go down the high road—to the right skimpy winter rye, to the left bushes and swamp. Flat space around. All you meet are striped mileposts. In the sky a slow sun, here and there a cloud. What boredom! I turn back, having gone two miles and ascertained that it is another fifteen to the next station.

On returning, I tried to get my coachman to talk, but he, as if avoiding any proper conversation, responded to all my questions only with “There’s no knowing, Your Honor,” “God knows,” “But then, too…”

I sat by the window again and asked the fat housemaid, who ran past me every other minute, now to the back door, now to the pantry, if there was anything to read. She brought me several books. I was glad and eagerly threw myself into examining them. But I cooled off at once, seeing a well-worn ABC and an arithmetic book published for use in peasant schools. The stationmaster’s son, a rowdy boy of about nine, studied in them, as she said, all the tsar’s sciences, tearing out the pages as he learned them, for which, by the law of natural retribution, his hair had been pulled…