The Queen of Spades, and other stories
disappeared. Their delight was really intoxicating when, meeting the
conquerors, they cried, "Hurrah!" And they threw up their caps in the
air.
Who of the officers of that period does not own that to the Russian
women he was indebted for his best and most valued reward? During this
brilliant period Maria was living with her mother in retirement, and
neither of them saw how, in both the capitals, the returning troops
were welcomed. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm
was, perhaps, even greater.
In these places the appearance of an officer became for him a veritable
triumph. The accepted lover in plain clothes fared badly by his side.
We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Maria was
still, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to fall in the
rear when there arrived at her castle the wounded young colonel
of Hussars--Burmin by name--with the order of St. George in his
button-hole, and an interesting pallor on his face. He was about
twenty-six. He had come home on leave to his estates, which were close
to Maria's villa. Maria paid him such attention as none of the others
received. In his presence her habitual gloom disappeared. It could not
be said that she flirted with him. But a poet, observing her behaviour,
might have asked, "S' amor non è, che dunque?"
Burmin was really a very agreeable young man. He possessed just the
kind of sense that pleased women: a sense of what is suitable and
becoming. He had no affectation, and was carelessly satirical. His
manner towards Maria was simple and easy. He seemed to be of a quiet
and modest disposition; but rumour said that he had at one time been
terribly wild. This, however, did not harm him in the opinion of Maria,
who (like all other young ladies) excused, with pleasure, vagaries
which were the result of impulsiveness and daring.
But above all--more than his love-making, more than his pleasant talk,
more than his interesting pallor, more even than his bandaged arm--the
silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and her imagination.
She could not help confessing to herself that he pleased her very much.
Probably he too, with his acuteness and his experience, had seen that
he interested her. How was it, then, that up to this moment she had
not seen him at her feet; had not received from him any declaration
whatever? And wherefore did she not encourage him with more attention,
and, according to circumstances, even with tenderness? Had she a secret
of her own which would account for her behaviour?
At last, Burmin fell into such deep meditation, and his black eyes
rested with such fire upon Maria, that the decisive moment seemed very
near. The neighbours spoke of the marriage as an accomplished fact, and
kind Praskovia rejoiced that her daughter had at last found for herself
a worthy mate.
The lady was sitting alone once in the drawing-room, laying out
grande-patience, when Burmin entered the room, and at once inquired for
Maria.
"She is in the garden," replied the old lady: "go to her, and I will
wait for you here." Burmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the
cross and thought, "Perhaps the affair will be settled to-day!"
Burmin found Maria in the ivy-bower beside the pond, with a book in
her hands, and wearing a white dress--a veritable heroine of romance.
After the first inquiries, Maria purposely let the conversation drop;
increasing by these means the mutual embarrassment, from which it was
only possible to escape by means of a sudden and positive declaration.
It happened thus. Burmin, feeling the awkwardness of his position,
informed Maria that he had long sought an opportunity of opening his
heart to her, and that he begged for a moment's attention. Maria closed
the book and lowered her eyes, as a sign that she was listening.
"I love you," said Burmin, "I love you passionately!" Maria blushed,
and bent her head still lower.
"I have behaved imprudently, yielding as I have done to the seductive
pleasure of seeing and hearing you daily." Maria recollected the first
letter of St. Preux in 'La Nouvelle Héloïse.'
"It is too late now to resist my fate. The remembrance of you, your
dear incomparable image, must from to-day be at once the torment and
the consolation of my existence. I have now a grave duty to perform,
a terrible secret to disclose, which will place between us an
insurmountable barrier."
"It has always existed!" interrupted Maria; "I could never have been
your wife."
"I know," he replied quickly; "I know that you once loved. But death
and three years of mourning may have worked some change. Dear, kind
Maria, do not try to deprive me of my last consolation; the idea that
you might have consented to make me happy if----. Don't speak, for
God's sake don't speak--you torture me. Yes, I know, I feel that you
could have been mine, but--I am the most miserable of beings--I am
already married!"
Maria looked at him in astonishment.
"I am married," continued Burmin; "I have been married more than three
years, and do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I
shall ever see her again."
"What are you saying?" exclaimed Maria; "how strange! Pray continue."
"In the beginning of 1812," said Burmin, a I was hurrying on to
Wilna, where my regiment was stationed. Arriving one evening late
at a station, I ordered, the horses to be got ready quickly, when
suddenly a fearful snowstorm broke out. Both station master and drivers
advised me to wait till it was over. I listened to their advice, but
an unaccountable restlessness took possession of me, just as though
someone was pushing me on. Meanwhile, the snowstorm did not abate. I
could bear it no longer, and again ordered the horses, and started in
the midst of the storm. The driver took it into his head to drive along
the river, which would shorten the distance by three miles. The banks
were covered with snowdrifts; the driver missed the turning which would
have brought us out on to the road, and we turned up in an unknown
place. The storm never ceased. I could discern a light, and told the
driver to make for it. We entered a village, and found that the light
proceeded from a wooden church. The church was open. Outside the
railings stood several sledges, and people passing in and out through
the porch.
"'Here! here!' cried several voices. I told the coachman to drive up.
"'Where have you dawdled?' said someone to me. 'The bride has fainted;
the priest does not know what to do: we were on the point of going
back. Make haste and get out!'
"I got out of the sledge in silence, and stepped into the church,
which was dimly lighted with two or three tapers. A girl was sitting
in a dark corner on a bench; and another girl was rubbing her temples.
'Thank God,' said the latter, 'you have come at last! You have nearly
been the death of the young lady.'
"The old priest approached me; saying,
"'Shall I begin?'
"'Begin--begin, reverend father,' I replied, absently.
"The young lady was raised up. I thought her rather pretty. Oh, wild,
unpardonable frivolity! I placed myself by her side at the altar. The
priest hurried on.
"Three men and the maid supported the bride, and occupied themselves
with her alone. We were married!
"'Kiss your wife,' said the priest.
"My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was going to kiss her, when
she exclaimed, 'Oh! it is not he--not he!' and fell back insensible.
"The witnesses stared at me. I turned round and left the church without
any attempt being made to stop me, threw myself into the sledge, and
cried, 'Away!'"
"What!" exclaimed Maria. "And you don't know what became of your
unhappy wife?"
"I do not," replied Burmin; "neither do I know the name of the village
where I was married, nor that of the station from which I started.
At that time I thought so little of my wicked joke that, on driving
away from the church, I fell asleep, and never woke till early the
next morning, after reaching the third station. The servant who was
with me died during the campaign, so that I have now no hope of ever
discovering the unhappy woman on whom I played such a cruel trick, and
who is now so cruelly avenged."
"Great heavens!" cried Maria, seizing his hand. "Then it was you, and
you do not recognise me?" Burmin turned pale--and threw himself at her
feet.
THE UNDERTAKER.
The last remaining goods of the undertaker, Adrian Prohoroff, were
piled on the hearse, and the gaunt pair, for the fourth time, dragged
the vehicle along from the Basmannaia to the Nikitskaia, whither the
undertaker had flitted with all his household. Closing the shop, he
nailed to the gates an announcement that the house was to be sold or
let, and then started on foot for his new abode. Approaching the small
yellow house which had long attracted his fancy and which he at last
bought at a high price, the old undertaker was surprised to find that
his heart did not rejoice. Crossing the strange threshold, he found
disorder inside his new abode, and sighed for the decrepit hovel, where
for eighteen years everything had been kept in the most perfect order.
He began scolding both his daughters and the servant for being so slow,
and proceeded to help them himself. Order was speedily established.
The case with the holy pictures, the cupboard with the crockery, the
table, sofa, and bedstead, took up their appropriate corners in the
back room. In the kitchen and parlour was placed the master's stock
in trade, that is to say, coffins of every colour and of all sizes;
likewise wardrobes containing mourning hats, mantles, and funeral
torches. Over the gate hung a signboard representing a corpulent cupid
holding a reversed torch in his hand, with the following inscription:
"Here coffins are sold, covered, plain, or painted. They are also let
out on hire, and old ones are repaired."
The daughters had retired to their own room, Adrian went over his
residence, sat down by the window, and ordered the samovar to be got
ready.
The enlightened reader is aware that both Shakespeare and Walter Scott
have represented their gravediggers as lively jocular people, for the
sake, no doubt, of a strong contrast. But respect for truth prevents me
from following their example; and I must confess that the disposition
of our undertaker corresponded closely with his melancholy trade.
Adrian Prohoroff: was usually pensive and gloomy. He only broke silence
to scold his daughters when he found them idle, looking out of window
at the passers by, or asking too exorbitant prices for his products
from those who had the misfortune (sometimes the pleasure) to require
them. Sitting by the window drinking his seventh cup of tea, according
to his custom, Adrian was wrapped in the saddest thoughts. He was
thinking of the pouring rain, which a week before had met the funeral
of a retired brigadier at the turnpike gate, causing many mantles to
shrink and many hats to contract. He foresaw inevitable outlay, his
existing supply of funeral apparel being in such a sad condition. But
he hoped to make good the loss from the funeral of the old shopwoman,
Tiruhina, who had been at the point of death for the last year.
Tiruhina, however, was dying at Basgulai, and Prohoroff was afraid that
her heirs, in spite of their promise to him, might be too lazy to send
so far, preferring to strike a bargain with the nearest contractor.
These reflections were interrupted unexpectedly by three freemason
knocks at the door. "Who is there?" enquired the undertaker. The door
opened and a man, in whom at a glance might be recognised a German
artisan, entered the room, and with a cheery look approached the
undertaker.