As so often with Pushkin, however, we glimpse other concerns lurking not far beneath the carefree surface. His account of how he came to write Count Nulin continues with the cryptic sentence: ‘History does repeat itself strangely’ (Wolff, p. 273). Russian critics have suggested that Count Nulin relates to Pushkin’s concern with patterns of history at the time of writing (one month previously he had completed the verse drama Boris Godunov, which deals with cataclysmic historical events), and one of them has speculated that at this time ‘Pushkin pondered on history’s laws and on the possibility of a chain of trifling accidents jeopardising a great event’ (Lotman, p. 17). By an irony of fate, instead of participating in the abortive Decembrist uprising (see Introduction under ‘Life’) Pushkin wrote Count Nulin instead, finishing it on the very day when the uprising was taking place in the capital. It was first published in Delvig’s almanac Northern Flowers in 1827.
Pushkin’s iambic tetrameter can carry light-hearted everyday idiom as readily as a more condensed and elevated style like that, for example, of The Bronze Horseman, and is also a vehicle natural to English.
Time to be off! Loud blows the horn;
The whippers-in in hunting dress
Have mounted promptly with the dawn,
The close-leashed borzois prance and press.
The master of the house appears,
And pausing in the porch awhile
He looks about; his visage bears
A proud, proprietorial smile.
He wears a fastened Cossack coat
10With sash in which a blade is stowed,
A rum-flask hangs below his throat,
A horn upon a bronzen chain.
His blear-eyed wife, in cap and shawl,
Looks from her window, vexed, it’s plain,
By all the din and caterwaul …
They bring the master of the house
His mount; he grabs the withers, gets
Foot firmly in the stirrup, shouts
Not to wait up – and off he sets.
20The period to September’s close
(To use the lowly terms of prose)
Can drive the country-dweller mad:
The wind, the sleet, the mud, the haze,
The howl of wolves – but then how glad
The hunter! Scorning easy ways
He thunders through remote terrain,
Spends nights in every kind of place,
Curses, gets soaked and chilled in rain,
And toasts the devastating chase.
30Now what can occupy the spouse
Forsaken by the other spouse?
Not hard to find activities:
She must salt mushrooms, feed the geese,
Make sure the kitchen tasks are heeded,
Inspect the cellar and the barn –
Mistress’s eye is always needed
To see that nothing comes to harm.
I’m sad to say, our heroine …
(Oh dear! I quite forgot to name her:
40‘Natasha’ she had always been,
But let us properly proclaim her
Natalya Pavlovna) … I fear
That our Natalya Pavlovna
Had absolutely no idea
What her domestic duties were;
Her childhood had been spent, alas,
Not under sound paternal rule
But at a gentle boarding school
Run by a Madame Falbalasse.
50Upon a window-seat she sits,
Holding half opened on her knees
A sentimental novel; it’s
The Love of Armand and Élise:
A Mutual Family Correspondence,
Volume the Fourth – a classical,
Old-fashioned, long, long, long, long novel,
All moral and respectable,
With none of your Romantic nonsense.
At first Natalya Pavlovna
60Had read this epic all agog,
But soon a fight distracted her
Between a yard-goat and a dog.
Boys gathered round with many a hoot.
Meanwhile, a turkey flock pursued
A sodden cockerel, gravely gobbling;
Around a pool three ducks went hobbling,
Then paddled in, and splashed and rolled;
A peasant-woman crossed the mud
To hang a pile of washing out.
70It presently grew very cold –
Soon there’d be snow upon the ground …
And now there came a coach-bell’s sound.
He who has lived the life apart
In rural gloom, my friends, knows well
How strongly it can stir the heart,
That jingle of a distant bell.
A friend come visiting at last,
Some comrade from our dashing past?
It surely can’t be her? … Good lord!
80Nearer, nearer … The heart beats loud …
But further, further fades the sound,
And dies; the listener is ignored.
Natalya Pavlovna with glee
Runs quickly to the balcony:
Over the river, past the mill
A carriage speeds towards her – oh!
Crosses the bridge, draws nearer – no,
Turns left. Near tears, she gazes still.
But – joy! – an unexpected slope –
90The carriage topples. ‘Filka, Vash!
Ask them in at once. I hope
The gentleman will dine with me!
Is he alive? Just run and see,
Be quick!’
The servant hurries out.
And now our heroine flies about,
Throws on a shawl, fluffs up her hair,
Adjusts a curtain, moves a chair,
And waits. ‘Dear God, please bring them here.’
100At last, at long last, they appear.
Bespattered with the journey’s dirt,
Somehow, severely bruised and hurt,
The sorry carriage crawls along.
Behind, a youthful gentleman
Limps. His undaunted serving-man,
A Frenchman, cries: ‘Courage, allons!’
They reach the porch, now here they are
Inside the house. Dear reader, while
A bedroom is prepared in style,
110Its door flung open wide, Picard
Bustles about and mutters oaths,
His master seeks a change of clothes –
Let me describe the visitor.
Count Nulin, home from foreign tour,
Has squandered his inheritance
In fashionable extravagance.
He’s on his way to Petropole
For show like some rare animal,
With store of hats and fans and waistcoats,
120Cufflinks and corsets, cloaks and dress-coats,
Pins, studs and stockings à la mode,
Handkerchiefs with coloured edges,
Lorgnettes, a book of wicked sketches,
Guizot’s new tome (a lot of rot!),
A novel by Sir Walter Scott –
He has the Paris court’s bons mots,
The latest song by Béranger,
Arias from Rossini, Paer,
And so on and so forth – you know.
130Places were set a while ago;
Impatiently the hostess sighs.
Enter, at last, the visitor.
Up starts Natalya Pavlovna,
Questions solicitously plies:
His leg now, does it hurt to touch?
Oh, says the count, it’s nothing much.
To table then without ado.
The count moves his place nearer hers,
And starts a conversation: first
140He curses Holy Russia – who
Can live in such perpetual snow?
He misses life in Paris so …
‘How is the theatre?’ ‘In decline,
&
nbsp; C’est bien mauvais, ça fait pitié:
Talma’s quite deaf, his voice – a whine,
And Mamselle Mars shows every sign …
But then Potier, le grand Potier!
He is the most admired by far,
As much as he has ever been.’
150‘Which writers are most popular?’
‘Oh, d’Arlincourt and Lamartine.’
‘In Russia too they’re imitated.’
‘Is that so? Then the Russian mind
Is really not so far behind?
God grant we’ll soon be educated!’
‘Where is the waistline?’ ‘Very low –
Almost to … there, that’s now the line.
But your toilette – it’s very fine:
These ruches, bows, the whole design …
160All very à la mode, you know.’
‘Well, we take the Telegraph.’
‘Oh, really? … Would you care for some
Vaudeville? This will make you laugh.’
The count proceeds to sing. ‘Count, come,
Please help yourself.’ ‘No more, I can’t.’
They rise. The hostess is in bliss.
Paris forgotten now, the count
Marvels at her: how sweet she is!
The evening passes quickly by;
170The count is quite beside himself;
His hostess’s expressive eye
Now warms, now sinks in mute reply …
And all too soon the clock strikes twelve.
His man snores in the portico,
The neighbour’s cockerel starts to crow,
The watchman strikes his iron bar,
All candles in the room are spent.
Rising, Natalya Pavlovna
Declares the evening at an end,
180Wishes the count a good night’s rest.
The dizzy, disappointed guest
Kisses her hand … And now, guess what!
What end to coquetry? The tease –
And may she be forgiven by God –
Gives the count’s hand a gentle squeeze.
Natalya Pavlovna undresses;
Parasha stands behind her chair.
To this Parasha she confesses
Her every daily thought and care:
190Parasha washes, sews, brings news,
Is grateful for cast-off fichus,
Provokes her master into laughter
And rails at him the moment after,
Lies to her mistress brazenly.
Now she holds forth imposingly
About the count and his affairs;
The thorough knowledge that she airs!
Heaven knows where she has it from.
At last her mistress, with a frown –
200‘That’s enough! You do go on!’ –
Demands her night-clothes, then lies down
And tells Parasha to be gone.
Meanwhile the count retires to rest;
Helped by his man, he gets undressed …
Climbs into bed. Monsieur Picard
Offers his master a cigar,
A silver tumbler and a bottle,
Lamp, tweezers, clock and uncut novel.
In bed, our hero runs his eyes
210Over a page of Walter Scott.
He grasps, however, not a jot,
Distracted by a wild surmise …
‘Could I,’ he wonders, ‘heavens above!
Could I really be in love?
How entertaining that would be,
What an adventure, what delight!
My hostess likes the look of me …’
Nulin extinguishes the light.
But sleep just will not come to him;
220A fever runs through every limb.
The Devil fills his wakeful mind
With fancies of a sinful kind.
Our ardent hero with a sigh
Imagines that vivacious eye,
That rather full and rounded figure,
That voice’s pleasing female flow,
That face’s rosy country glow –
Finer than paint are health and vigour.
And oh! that shapely little foot,
230And oh! the simple way she put
Her hand in his, and lightly squeezed!
The moment ought to have been seized –
How foolish to have left her. But
Time yet. Her door will not be shut …
Donning his striped silk dressing-gown,
The count is speedily abroad.
In the dark a chair goes down;
Tarquin, in hope of sweet reward,
Once more sets forth to seek Lucretia,
240Resolved to go through fire to reach her.
Thus you may see a cunning tom,
The mincing darling of the house,
Slip from the stove to stalk a mouse,
Creep stealthily and slowly on
Towards his victim, grow slit-eyed
And wave his tail from side to side,
Coil to a ball, extend his claws
And snap! the wretch is in his paws.
On through the darkness groped the count
250With passion burning in his breast,
Scarcely daring to draw breath
And trembling at each sudden sound
The floorboards gave. At last he found
The sanctum door; a gentle press
Upon the stout brass handle – yes!
Slowly, softly the door uncloses …
Inside the bedroom, fitfully
A lamp still burns, and palely glows as
The mistress peacefully reposes,
260Asleep, or she pretends to be.
In goes the count … draws back, and sighs –
Falls at her feet at last … I urge
You ladies of St Petersburg:
Picture the wild awakening eyes
Of my Natalya Pavlovna –
What shall she do? Decide for her.
She stared in sheer bewilderment;
Our hero showered her with grand
But imitative sentiment
270And coolly his audacious hand
Reached out to touch her eiderdown.
At first she was too numbed to frown …
Then realisation dawned upon her,
And full of fury for her honour,
Also, we may suppose, of fear,
With sure and swiftly swinging hand
She didn’t hesitate to land
A good hard blow on Tarquin’s ear!
Count Nulin burned with deepest shame
280At such an insult to his name.
I wonder how things might have gone,
The cut to self-esteem so deep,
Had not the barking of the pom
Woken Parasha from her sleep.
He heard her footsteps drawing close,
He cursed his refuge of the night,
The wilful belle, and quickly rose
To take humiliating flight.
How the assorted company
290Spent the remainder of the night –
I’ll leave imaginations free,
I don’t intend to say who’s right.
Comes morning. Taciturn, our guest
Rises and lazily gets dressed;
Carelessly, yawning, trims his nails,
Clumsily ties his kerchief, fails
To smooth damped locks. A call to tea
Breaks in upon his reverie.
What should he do? He strives to bury
300His painful shame and secret fury,
And leaves his room.
His hostess dips
Her mischievous and mocking eyes
And, biting pretty scarlet lips,
In various wary ways she tries
A conversation. Shy and cold
At first, our hero grows more bold,
He gives his answers with a smile
And banters with a pleasant art;
Within a
very little while
310He has once more half lost his heart.
There comes a clamour from the hall.
Who’s there? ‘Natasha!’
‘Heavens above! …
This is my husband, count. My love,
Count Nulin.’
‘Glad to have you call …
What nasty weather, my, it’s raw …
I passed the forge just now and saw
Your carriage – it’s in good repair.
Natasha dear! We caught a hare
Outside the orchard … Vodka now!
320Try some of this, you really must …
It’s not from these parts, Count, you know.
Before you go – you’ll dine with us?’
‘Well, I don’t know, I shouldn’t stay.’
‘My wife and I are glad of guests:
Now Count, you mustn’t be away,
Do stay!’
But still the count requests
They let him leave. His hopes are gone,
He is both furious and forlorn.
Picard, well strengthened by a glass,
330Grunts with a heavy travelling-case.
Two servants hurry out to lash
The trunk upon the equipage
Now drawn up ready at the door.
Picard has seen to everything;
The count departs at last. What more
Can I relate? A word, my friends,
To add before my story ends.
Off, then, our hero’s carriage rolled.
Natalya Pavlovna soon told
340Her husband, neighbours, everyone
Just how my count had made so bold.
And who laughed more than anyone
To hear Natalya Pavlovna?
You’ll never guess. – Why ever not?
Her husband! – No sir. Of the lot,
He was the least amused by far;
He called the count a fool, a whelp,
He’d see to it, he’d make him yelp,
He’d raise his pack of hounds to help.
350No, Lidin laughed most heartily,
Their neighbour, aged just twenty-three.
So now then, we may safely say
A faithful wife need not give rise,
In times, my friends, like ours today,
To any very great surprise.
1825
A Little House in Kolomna
The metre of this poem, ottava rima, is of distinguished lineage, originating in the fourteenth century in Italian (Boccaccio) and the sixteenth in English (Thomas Wyatt), and used by Byron in Beppo (1818) and Don Juan (published from 1819). The poem is Pushkin’s answer to critics for their attacks on him following his trip to Transcaucasia in 1828–9 over what they judged to be the frivolous and even immoral content of his writing. On his return to St Petersburg from a spell with the Russian army of the South, he had been expected to hymn Russian arms and offer moral and patriotic uplift, but he wrote no such thing. Instead, in autumn 1830 he composed this narrative poem on an episode in the life of a widow and her daughter living in contemporary St Petersburg in a modest house in the run-down district of Kolomna where he himself had lived for a time on leaving school. Digressions, a leading feature of Pushkin’s narratives, produce much of the poem’s energy.