Caucasus -- Fiction; Russia -- History -- Nicholas I, 1825-1855 -- Fiction
It was already late in the night when Olénin came out of Belétski’s hut
following Maryánka and Ústenka. He saw in the dark street before him
the gleam of the girl’s white kerchief. The golden moon was descending
towards the steppe. A silvery mist hung over the village. All was
still; there were no lights anywhere and one heard only the receding
footsteps of the young women. Olénin’s heart beat fast. The fresh moist
atmosphere cooled his burning face. He glanced at the sky and turned to
look at the hut he had just come out of: the candle was already out.
Then he again peered through the darkness at the girls’ retreating
shadows. The white kerchief disappeared in the mist. He was afraid to
remain alone, he was so happy. He jumped down from the porch and ran
after the girls.
“Bother you, someone may see...” said Ústenka.
“Never mind!”
Olénin ran up to Maryánka and embraced her.
Maryánka did not resist.
“Haven’t you kissed enough yet?” said Ústenka. “Marry and then kiss,
but now you’d better wait.”
“Good-night, Maryánka. Tomorrow I will come to see your father and tell
him. Don’t you say anything.”
“Why should I!” answered Maryánka.
Both the girls started running. Olénin went on by himself thinking over
all that had happened. He had spent the whole evening alone with her in
a corner by the oven. Ústenka had not left the hut for a single moment,
but had romped about with the other girls and with Belétski all the
time. Olénin had talked in whispers to Maryánka.
“Will you marry me?” he had asked.
“You’d deceive me and not have me,” she replied cheerfully and calmly.
“But do you love me? Tell me for God’s sake!”
“Why shouldn’t I love you? You don’t squint,” answered Maryánka,
laughing and with her hard hands squeezing his....
“What whi-ite, whi-i-ite, soft hands you’ve got—so like clotted cream,”
she said.
“I am in earnest. Tell me, will you marry me?”
“Why not, if father gives me to you?”
“Well then remember, I shall go mad if you deceive me. Tomorrow I will
tell your mother and father. I shall come and propose.”
Maryánka suddenly burst out laughing.
“What’s the matter?”
“It seems so funny!”
“It’s true! I will buy a vineyard and a house and will enroll myself as
a Cossack.”
“Mind you don’t go after other women then. I am severe about that.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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