Russian Stories (Everyman's Library Pocket Classics Series) - Hardcover

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0525656030 ISBN 13: 9780525656036

Publisher: Everyman's Library, 2019

Synopsis

Two centuries of short stories by twenty-five titans of Russian literature, from Pushkin and Gogol to Tatyana Tolstaya and Svetlana Alexievich--in the beautifully jacketed Pocket Classics series.

Russian Stories rounds up marvelous short stories by all the Russian heavyweights, including Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chekhov, Bulgakov, and Nabokov, and continuing up to contemporary writers such as Tatyana Tolstaya and the recent Nobel Prize-winner Svetlana Alexievich. There is no similar one-volume collection of the best of the Russian greats in English, and especially none that include as many women as this one does, including a story by the recently rediscovered Teffi, who was widely hailed a century ago in Russia as "the female Chekhov." From the fate-changing storms that sweep through Alexander Pushkin's "The Blizzard" and Leo Tolstoy's "The Snow Storm" to the political whirlwind of perestroika that shapes Vladimir Sorokin's 1985 story "Start of the Season" to the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union as experienced by ordinary people in Alexievich's "Landscape of Loneliness," these riveting stories chronicle not only the particular dramas and upheavals of the Russian people, but also the tribulations and triumphs of the human spirit.

About this title

About the Author

CHRISTOPH KELLER is editor of the Everyman's Library Pocket Poet anthology Hip Hops: Poems About Beer. He is the author of prizewinning novels, plays, and essays in German, as well as the Swiss best-selling memoir The Best Dancer. He is the coauthor of a forthcoming biography of the American poet Muriel Rukeyser, to be published by Alfred A. Knopf. He divides his time between New York City and St. Gallen, Switzerland.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Alexander Pushkin
THE BLIZZARD
Translated by Paul Debreczeny
 
Over hillocks deep in snow
Speeding horses trample,
In a clearing off the road
Winks a lonely temple.
. . .
All at once a blizzard flings
Drifts across the way,
And a wheeling raven’s wings
Rasp above the sleigh.
Sorrow spell the gusty wails,
And the hasting horses
Scan the darkness, manes and tails
Bristling in their courses . . .
--Zhukovskii
 
Toward the end of the year 1811 – a memorable time for us – there lived in his own village of Nenaradovo a good man called Gavrila Gavrilovich R. He was renowned throughout the region for his hospitality and cordiality: neighbors came to his house all the time, some to eat and drink well, others to play Boston for five-kopeck stakes with his wife, Praskovia Petrovna, and still others to see the couple’s daughter, Maria Gavrilovna, a slender and pale girl of seventeen. She was considered a good match, and quite a few men marked her out either for themselves or for their sons.
 
Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on French novels and was consequently in love. The object she had chosen for her affections was a penniless sublieutenant of infantry, who at the time was staying in his village on a furlough. It goes without saying that the young man was aflame with an equal passion, and that the parents of his beloved, as soon as they noticed the young couple’s mutual inclinations, forbade their daughter even to think about him. They began receiving him at their home with less kindness than they would have shown a retired assessor.
 
Our lovers were engaged in correspondence, and they met alone every day either in the pine grove or by the ancient chapel. There they swore eternal love for each other, lamented their fate, and discussed different possible courses of action. As a result of such correspondence and meetings, they arrived (which was quite natural) at the following consideration: if we cannot breathe without each other, yet the will of cruel parents stands in the way of our happiness, should we not disregard that will? It is easy to guess that this felicitous idea occurred to the young man first and was then heartily embraced by Maria Gavrilovna’s romantic imagination.
 
Winter set in and put a stop to the young couple’s meetings their correspondence, on the other hand, grew all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich entreated Maria Gavrilovna in each letter to give herself to him and wed him in secret; they would remain in hiding for a while, then throw themselves at the feet of her parents, who of course would at last be moved by the lovers’ heroic constancy and unhappy state and would inevitably say, ‘‘Children! Come to our bosoms!’’
 
Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long while; many a plan for elopement was rejected. At last she gave her consent: on an appointed day she was to miss supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache.Her maid was in collusion with her; they were both to go into the garden by way of the back porch, find the sleigh waiting for them behind the garden, get in and ride five versts from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, and once there, go straight to the church, where Vladimir would be expecting them.
 
The night before the decisive day Maria Gavrilovna could not sleep a wink; she packed, tied up her linen and clothes into bundles, wrote a long letter to a friend – a sentimental young lady – and another one to her parents. She took leave of them in the most touching terms, excused her act by the irresistible force of her passion, and concluded with the assertion that it would be the happiest moment of her life if she were allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a seal from Tula that showed two flaming hearts with an appropriate inscription, she threw herself on her bed just before dawn and dozed off, but terrible dreams kept waking her even then. At first she fancied that just as she was getting into the sleigh to ride to her wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her across the snow with excruciating speed, and threw her into a bottomless pit . . . She was falling headlong with indescribable palpitations of the heart . . . Then she saw Vladimir lying in the grass pale and bloodied. Dying, he begged her in a piercing voice to hurry up and marry him . . . Still other visions, equally hideous and absurd, flitted before her in quick succession. At last she got up, paler than usual and with a genuine headache. Her father and mother noticed her anxious state; their tender solicitude and never-ending questions –‘‘What’s the matter with you,Masha?’’ ‘‘Are you ill,Masha?’’ – lacerated her heart. She tried to reassure them, tried to appear happy, but could not. Evening came. The thought that she was spending her last day in the midst of her family weighed on her heart. She was more dead than alive; in her mind she was saying good-bye to all the people and objects surrounding her. Supper was served; her heart began to beat violently. She declared in a trembling voice that she did not feel like eating supper, and wished her father and mother good night. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her, which almost made her cry. On reaching her room, she threw herself in an armchair and burst into a flood of tears. Her maid pleaded with her to calm herself and summon up her courage. Everything was ready. In another half hour Masha was to leave forever her parents’ home, the tranquil life of a maiden . . . Outside a blizzard was whirling; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; all of which seemed a threat and a bad omen to her. The house soon grew quiet: everybody was asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her bandbox, and went out on the back porch. The maid came after her, carrying two bundles. They descended into the garden. The blizzard was not letting up; the wind met Masha head-on as if tying to stop the young malefactress. They could hardly reach the other end of the garden. The sleigh was waiting for them on the road. The horses, frozen through, could not stand still; Vladimir’s coachman walked up and down in front of the shafts of the sleigh trying to restrain the restless animals. He helped the young lady and her maid climb in and find room for the two bundles and the box, then he took the reins; and the horses dashed off. But let us entrust the young lady to her Mucky stars and to the skill of Tereshka the coachman, while we turn our attention to our young paramour.
 
Vladimir had been on the road all day. In the morning he went to see the priest at Zhadrino and could just barely prevail on him; then he went in search of potential witnesses among the landowners of the neighborhood. The first one he called on, a forty-year-old retired cavalry officer by the name of Dravin, consented with pleasure. This adventure, he kept saying, reminded him of his earlier days and his pranks in the hussars.He persuaded Vladimir to stay for dinner, assuring him that finding two more witnesses would be no problem at all. Indeed a land surveyor named Schmitt, wearing mustachios and spurs, and the son of the police superintendent, a boy of sixteen who had recently joined the uhlans, appeared on the scene right after dinner. Not only did they accede to Vladimir’s request, but they even swore they would sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with fervor and went home to get ready.
 
It was already quite dark. He sent his reliable Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed, thorough instructions. For himself he had a small one-horse sleigh harnessed, and set out alone, without a driver, for Zhadrino, whereMaria Gavrilovna was due to arrive in another couple of hours. He knew the road well, and it was only a twentyminute ride.
 
But no sooner had he left the village behind and entered the fields than the wind rose, and such a blizzard developed that he could not see anything. In one minute the road was covered over; the surrounding landscape disappeared in a thick yellowish mist driven through with white flakes of snow; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in the middle of a field, and his attempts to get back on the road were all in vain. The horse trod at random, now clambering up a pile of snow, now tumbling into a ditch; the
sleigh kept turning over; all Vladimir could do was to try not to lose the right direction. It seemed to him, however, that more than half an hour had passed, yet he had still not reached the Zhadrino woods. Another ten minutes or so went by, but the woods still did not come within his view. He rode across a field intersected by deep gullies. The blizzard would not let up; the sky would not clear. The horse began to get tired, and Vladimir perspired profusely, even though he kept sinking into the snow up to his waist.
 
At last Vladimir realized he was going in the wrong direction. He stopped, began to think, to recollect, to consider, and became convinced that he should have turned to the right. He started off to the right. His horse could hardly move. He had already been on the road for over an hour. Zhadrino should not have been very far. Yet though he rode on and on, there was no end to the open country. Snowdrifts and gullies at every step; the sleigh kept turning over; he had to lift it upright every minute. The time was passing; he began to worry in earnest.
 
At last something dark came into his view on one side. He turned toward it. Coming closer, he could make out a wood. Thank God, he thought, I am close now. He drove along the edge of the wood, hoping presently to meet the familiar road, or else to go around the wood and find Zhadrino right behind it. He soon found the road and advanced into the darkness under the trees bared by winter. Here the wind could not blow quite so fiercely; the road was even; the horse perked up, and Vladimir felt reassured.
 
He rode on and on, however, yet there was no sign of Zhadrino; nor was there an end to the woods. He realized with horror that he had driven into an unfamiliar forest. Despair took possession of him. He whipped the horse; the poor animal tried to break into a trot but soon gave in to fatigue, and within a quarter of an hour slowed down to a snail’s pace despite every effort on the part of the unfortunate Vladimir.
 
Gradually the trees thinned out, and Vladimir emerged from the forest, but there was still no sign of Zhadrino. It must have been around midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove forward haphazardly. The weather had by now grown calm, the clouds were breaking up, and a broad, flat field, covered with a white undulating carpet, stretched out before Vladimir. The night was quite clear. A short distance away Vladimir saw a hamlet consisting of four or five houses. He rode up to it. At the first hut he jumped out of the sleigh, ran up to the window, and started knocking. In a few minutes the wooden shutter opened and an old man thrust his gray beard out of the window.
 
‘‘What d’ya want?’’
 
‘‘Is Zhadrino far from here?’’
 
‘‘If Zhadrino’s far?’’
 
‘‘Yes, yes. Is it far?’’
 
‘‘Not that far; it’ll be ten versts or thereabouts.’’
 
Hearing this answer, Vladimir clutched his head and remained motionless like a man condemned to die.
‘‘And where would you be coming from?’’ continued the old man. Vladimir was not in a state to answer questions.
 
‘‘Listen, old man,’’ he said, ‘‘can you procure some horses that will take me to Zhadrino?’’
 
‘‘Horses, here?’’
 
‘‘Could I at least take a guide with me? I will pay him as much as he wants.’’
 
‘‘Wait,’’ said the old man, letting the shutter down. ‘‘I’ll send my son out. He’ll show you the way.’’
 
Vladimir waited a little, but scarcely a minute had gone by when he started knocking again. The shutter was raised, and the beard came in view.
 
‘‘What d’ya want?’’
 
‘‘What about your son?’’
 
‘‘He’ll be out in a minute. Tying up his shoes. You’re frozen, I trove; come inside to warm up.’’
 
‘‘No, thank you, just send your son out as soon as possible.’’
 
The gate creaked; a lad came out with a cudgel in his hand; he went ahead of Vladimir, either leading him along the road or searching for it where it was covered by snowdrifts.
 
‘‘What is the time?’’ Vladimir asked him.
 
‘‘It’ll soon be getting light,’’ answered the young peasant. Vladimir no longer said anything.
 
The cocks were crowing, and it was already daylight by the time they reached Zhadrino. The church was locked. Vladimir paid his guide and drove to the priest’s house. His troika was not in the courtyard. What news awaited him!
 
But let us return to the good proprietors of Nenaradovo and take a look: what might be happening at their house? Well, nothing.
 
The old couple woke up and came down to the living room. Gavrila Gavrilovich wore his nightcap and a flannel jacket, Praskovia Petrovna was in her quilted dressing gown. The samovar was lit, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent a little handmaid to find out how Maria Gavrilovna felt and whether she had slept well. The little girl came back with the answer that the young mistress had slept badly but was by now feeling better and, so please Your Honor, would soon come down to the living room. Indeed, the door opened, and Maria Gavrilovna came up to her papa and mama in turn to wish them good morning.
 
‘‘How’s your head, Masha?’’ asked Gavrila Gavrilovich.
 
‘‘It’s better, papa,’’ answered Masha.
 
‘‘It must have been the fumes from the stove that made you, feel poorly last night,’’ said Praskovia Petrovna.
 
‘‘It may have been,’’ answered Masha.
 
The day passed without any incident, but during the night Masha fell ill. They went to town for the doctor. He arrived toward evening and found the invalid in a state of delirium. A high fever had developed, and the poor girl hovered on the brink of the grave for two weeks.
 
Nobody in the household knew about the intended elopement. The letters Masha had written the night before were burned, and her maid, fearing the anger of her masters, did not breathe a word to anybody. The priest, the retired officer, the mustachioed land surveyor, and the juvenile uhlan were all discreet, and for good reason. Tereshka the coachman never used an extra word, even in his cups. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. It was only Maria Gavrilovna who revealed her secret in her continual state of delirium. Her words, however, were so incongruous that her mother, who never for a moment left her bedside, could make out only that Masha was fatally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich, and that her love  was probably the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some neighbors, and they all came to the unanimous conclusion that this was evidently Masha’s destiny, that marriages were made in heaven, that poverty was no shame, that you have to ...

Edition details

• Publisher: Everyman's Library
• Publication date: 2019
• ISBN 10: 0525656030
• ISBN 13: 9780525656036
• Binding: Hardcover
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 432
• Editor: Keller Christoph