Novels, Tales, Journeys

A Romance at the Caucasian Waters

On one of the first days of April 181– there was great turmoil in the house of Katerina Petrovna Tomskaya. The doors were all thrown open; the reception room and the front hall were cluttered with trunks and suitcases; the drawers of all the chests were pulled out; the servants kept running up and down the stairs, the maids fussed and argued; the mistress of the house, a lady of about forty-five, sat in her bedroom, going over the account books brought by the fat steward, who stood before her, hands behind his back and right leg thrust forward. Katerina Petrovna made it look as if she were intimately acquainted with the secrets of management, but her questions and observations betrayed her seignorial ignorance and occasionally provoked a barely perceptible smile on the majestic face of the steward, who nevertheless, with great indulgence, entered in detail into all the explanations she demanded. Just then a servant announced that Paraskovya Ivanovna Povodova had arrived. Katerina Petrovna was glad of the chance to break off her consultation, asked her in, and dismissed the steward.

“Good gracious, dearie,” the old lady said, coming in, “you’re getting ready to travel! Where on earth are you going?”

“To the Caucasus, my dear Paraskovya Ivanovna.”

“To the Caucasus! So Moscow told the truth for once in its life, and I didn’t believe it. To the Caucasus! It’s so terribly far away. Why do you want to drag yourself God knows where, for God knows what?”

“What can I do? The doctors told me that my Masha needs mineral waters, and hot baths are necessary for my health. I’ve been suffering for a year and a half already; maybe the Caucasus will help me.”

“God grant it. And are you going soon?”

“Some four days from now; at the most, the very most, I may linger for a week; everything’s ready. Yesterday they brought me a new traveling carriage, and what a carriage! A toy, a joy to look at—little drawers everywhere, and what does it not have: a bed, a toilet table, a cellaret, a medicine chest, a kitchen, a set of dishes. Do you want to have a look?”

“Gladly, dearie.”

And the two ladies went out to the porch. The coachmen pulled the traveling coach out of the shed. Katerina Petrovna told them to open the door, got into the carriage, turned over all the cushions, pulled out all the drawers, showed all the secrets, all the conveniences, raised all the shutters, all the mirrors, turned all the bags inside out—in short, for a sick woman she proved very active and agile. Having admired the equipage, the two ladies returned to the drawing room, where they fell to talking again about the forthcoming journey, the return, the plans for the coming winter:

“I hope to be back by October without fail,” said Katerina Petrovna. “I’ll have soirées twice a week, and I hope, my dear, that you will transfer your Boston1 to me.”

Just then a girl of about eighteen, slender, tall, with a pale, beautiful face and fiery dark eyes, quietly came into the room, went up to kiss Katerina Petrovna’s hand, and curtsied to Povodova.

“Did you sleep well, Masha?” asked Katerina Petrovna.

“Very well, mama; I only just got up. You’re surprised at my laziness, Paraskovya Ivanovna? What can I do? For an invalid it’s forgivable.”

“Sleep, dearie, sleep to your heart’s content,” Povodova replied, “and be sure to come back from the Caucasus ruddy-cheeked, healthy, and, God willing—married.”

“What do you mean, married?” Katerina Petrovna objected, laughing. “Who is she going to marry in the Caucasus? Some Circassian prince?…”

“A Circassian! God forbid! They’re like Turks and Bukharans2—heathens. They’ll shave her head and lock her up.”

“Let God just send us health,” Katerina Petrovna said with a sigh, “and suitors won’t stay away. Thank God, Masha’s still young, there’s a dowry. And if a good man falls in love, he’ll take her even without a dowry.”

“But all the same it’s better with a dowry, dearie,” Paraskovya Ivanovna said, standing up. “Well, let’s say good-bye, Katerina Petrovna, I won’t see you till September. It’s a long way to drag myself to you, from Basmannaya to the Arbat3—and I won’t invite you, I know you have no time now. Good-bye to you, too, my beauty; don’t forget my advice.”

The ladies took leave of each other, and Paraskovya Ivanovna left.