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NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
Poor Liza
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him. He decided on this, and moved into her house, after
having cast a sincere sigh for his Liza. But is this any
justification?
Liza found herself on the street and in such a state no pen
could describe. He, he has driven me out? He loves another?
I am lost!—These were her thoughts, her feelings! A cruel
fainting spell interrupted them for a while. A kindly woman
who was coming along the street stopped Over Liza, who Was
lying on the ground, and tried to revive her. The poor thing
opened her eyes, stood up with the help of this kind woman,
thanked her and set off, whither she did not know. I can live
no more, thought Liza, no more! . . . Oh, if only the sky
would fall on me! If only the earth would swallow up a poor
girl! . . . No! The sky will not fall, the earth will not tremble!
Woe is me! She walked out of the city and suddenly found
herself on the bank of a deep pond, under the shade of the
ancient oaks, which several weeks before were the dumb
witnesses to her raptures. The recollection rent her soul; a
most terrible, heartfelt torment showed on her face. But
within a few minutes she was lost deep in thought. She looked
about herself, caught sight of her neighbor's daughter (a
fifteen-year-old girl) coming along the road. She called to
her, took the hundred rubles from her pocket and, giving them
to her, said: "Dearest Aniuta, my dear little friend! Take this
money to my mother—it isn't stolen—tell her that Liza is
guilty before her; that I have hidden from her my love for a
certain cruel man—for E. . . . Why know his name? Say that
he has deceived me—ask her to forgive me—God will be her
help—kiss her hand just as I am now kissing yours—tell her
that poor Liza told you to kiss her—say that I . . . " At this
point Liza threw herself into the water. Aniuta screamed,
began to sob, but could not save her. She ran to the village—
people gathered and they pulled Liza out; but she was already
dead.
Thus she ended her life, she who was so beautiful in soul
and body. When we are
there, in the new life, we will see each
other, and I will recognize you, tender Liza!
They buried her next to the pond, under the somber oak,
and placed a wooden cross on her grave. I often sit here, lost
in thought, resting against the receptacle of Liza's dust; the
pond stirs before my eyes, and the leaves rustle over my head.
Liza's mother heard of the terrible death of her daughter,
and her blood froze from horror—her eyes closed forever.
The cabin became deserted. The wind moans in it, and
superstitious villagers, hearing this noise at night, say: "There
the dead girl is groaning; there poor Liza is moaning!"
Erast was miserable to the end of his life. Having learned
of Liza's fate, he could not find any solace, and he considered
himself to be her murderer. I made his acquaintance a year
before his death. He told me this story himself and led me to
Liza's grave.—Perhaps now they have become reconciled!
The Island of Bornholm
95
5. The Island of Bornholm
NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
Published in 1793, The Island of Bornholm (Ostrov Born-
gol'm) is one of Karamzin's more effective works of fiction.
The awesome but majestic Scandinavian landscape, the
medieval Gothic castle with its drawbridge, vaults, and sub-
terranean dungeon, the nocturnal setting, the intrusion of
dreams, "forbidden love," and the terrible vengeance visited
upon the two young lovers, and finally the all-pervading gloom
and mystery (which the author cannot bring himself to reveal
even at the end of the work) combine to evoke a thoroughly
romantic atmosphere. By hints and allusions, by delicate
shades and halftones, Karamzin skillfully creates a sense of
deepening mystery, of growing suspense. The "truth" of the
tragedy is only suggested, never boldly stated, and when he
reaches the conclusion of his tale Karamzin tauntingly leaves
the reader to resolve the mystery for himself.
Friends! The fair summer is over, golden autumn has
turned pale, the foliage has withered. The trees are without
fruits or leaves; the misty sky is agitated, like a gloomy sea;
the winter down falls on the cold earth. We take leave of
Nature until the joyous meeting of spring; we shut ourselves
away from snowstorms and blizzards; we shut ourselves up in
a quiet study! Time shall not burden us, for we know a
remedy against boredom. Friends! The oak and the birch
flame in our fireplace; let the wind rage and strew the win-
dows with white snow! Let us sit by the red fire and tell each
other tales and legends and accounts of what lies in the past.
You know that I have traveled abroad, far, far from my
homeland, far from you, who are so dear to my heart. I have
seen many wonders, I have heard many amazing tales; much
have I told you, but I could not tell you all that has happened
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to me. Listen; I
will recount—I
will recount the truth, and
no invention.
England was the farthest point of my travels. "Out there,"
I told myself, "homeland and friends await you; it is time to
calm yourself in their embraces, time to dedicate your pil-
grim's staff to the son of Maia,* time to hang it on the
heaviest bough of the tree beneath which you played in your
childhood years." And so I took passage in London on the
ship Britannia, to sail home to my beloved land of Russia.
On white sails we scudded along the blossoming banks of
the majestic Thames. Already the boundless ocean lay green
ahead of us, already we could hear the sound of its agitation;
but suddenly the wind shifted, and our ship, in expectation of
a more propitious time, was forced to put in opposite the town
of Gravesend.
Together with the captain I descended onto the shore, and
strolled with a peaceful heart over green fields adorned by
nature and industry, places exotic and picturesque; finally,
fatigued by the heat of the sun, I lay down on the grass, under
a century-old elm, close to the seashore, and gazed at the
moist expanse, at the foamy billows that with a dull roar were
carried in countless rows toward the isle from the gloomy
distance. The dejected sound and sight of the endless waters
were beginning to incline me to drowsiness, to that sweet
idleness of soul in which all ideas and feelings stand still and
become fixed, like a suddenly frozen stream, and which is
the most expressive and the most poetic image of death. But
all at once the branches rustled over my head. . . . I looked
up and beheld a young man, pale, languid—more an appari-
tion than a human being. In one hand he held a guitar; with
the other he was tearing leaves off the tree, while he gazed
out at the blue sea with motionless dark eyes in which there
shone the last ray of dying life. My glance did not meet his,
for his senses were dead to external objects; he stood two
paces from me, but saw nothing and heard nothing. Unhappy
youth! I thought, you are destroyed by fate. I do not know
your name or your family, but I know that you are unfor-
tunate!
He sighed, raised his eyes to heaven, and lowered them
* In ancient times travelers returning from abroad dedicated
their staves to Mercury.—'Author's note.